Hectic
by bullybullet6
Summary: Jenny becomes caught up with a foreboding stranger who has a bullet hole in his skull. She's bumping into him all over town. His intentions become clear after he discovers her complex relations with the gangs of Hell's Kitchen. Frank becomes uncertain of how to deal with the woman when he is struck by her kindness; Why can't he just kill her? Frank/OC. Tantalisingly slowburn.
1. 1 The Polite Stranger

_A few quick notes: This story is Frank/OC. Though they meet quite early in the story, it's very slowburn. Despite this being a 'romance' fiction, this story will mostly focus on how the characters interact with one another._

 _Warnings: Anything one would expect from the Daredevil series_

 _Disclaimer: I have no rights to anything in this story other than my Original Character :'(_

 _Enjoy._

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1**

* * *

Jenny strolls down one of the many bustling, early morning streets. Workdays in Hell's Kitchen are always noisy, crowded, but she loves listening to the commotion of people on their rush to meet the day. The coffee house isn't far from her residence, and even though there is no need to leave the apartment today- like most days- Jenny follows her somewhat regular routine of rising early and heading out.

The news reporter had claimed that today should be one of the last in this week's temperature spike, leaving Jenny to silently thank her lucky stars. The heatwave is unpleasant for everyone, but with an abnormally high body temperature, for her it was even more so. So while the rays from the low sun lick at her exposed upper back and shoulders with an unappreciated ferociousness, Jenny passes the suit jackets and pencil skirts on her way to the shop, ignoring the pestering heat.

Upon arrival Jenny pushes the store's glass door open, earning the chime of a soft bell, and steps into the welcomed cool of the air conditioning. The coffee house is reasonably sized. The counter jutting out from the back wall is adorned with a till and a small glass display refrigerator filled with muffins and pastries. Mounted upon the wall above the counter is a blown-up menu of the drinks for sale. In front of the counter is an empty space for customers to line up, and along the walls on either side are metallic, two-seater tables.

Despite the busy hour of morning there are only a handful of people in the store, and it isn't long before Jenny is at the head of the line. She smiles at Suzy, the kind brunette worker behind the counter.

"The usual?" Suzy asks.

Jenny gives a polite nod. "Thanks."

She shifts off to the side as Suzy hands the order to another worker and starts with the next customer. As she begins to scribble the new order down, the bell on the door gives a ding and a blonde man saunters in. He cuts past the three people already in line, receiving a few grunts of disapproval, and throws some notes down in front of Suzy. The girl, in response, places the cash in the register and leans down, reaching for something under the bench. The blonde man turns to Jenny and smiles brightly through his short beard.

"Jenny, how you doin'?" He beams.

The woman smiles right back, clapping him on the arm in greeting. "I'm quite alright. Picking up for the boss-man, Rafe?" She asks.

Suzy slides two lidded coffee cups over to counter to Rafe and inclines her head briskly before resuming the order with the now-disgruntled customer. He snatches up the cups, one in each hand, and moves to Jenny's other side, away from the register. "Of course I am. You know how Mr. Nesbitt gets if he doesn't have his coffee."

"Can't argue with that. What is it about cranky Irishmen?" She ponders aloud playfully as she accepts a cup from a worker and takes a sip, placing her payment on the bench top.

"Why can't you just drink coffee like the rest of us normal people?" Rafe jokes.

"Hey! There's nothing wrong with chocolate frappes, thank you very much." Jenny defends. "Besides, drinking coffee makes me feel sick, no matter how much I like how it smells."

"Whatever, lady." Rafe rolls his eyes.

The two of them make their way to the front door, and Jenny opens it for Rafe who slides past her and out onto the street. They walk together, and though Jenny's apartment is the other way, she doesn't mind the extra time in the fresh air.

"Thanks for fixing up Thomas the other night." Rafe says, giving a side glance at her. "With a stab wound like that he probably wouldn't have made it."

Jenny holds up her free hand absentmindedly. "Don't mention it. It's not like I did it entirely out of the kindness of my heart, anyway. You guys pay me for my... err, services."

"Services?" He raises a blond brow. "You patch up mobsters and gang members with your weird, witchy, magic powers."

The woman laughs. "That's one way of looking at it."

"Speaking of mobsters and gang members," Rafe starts, halting in the pathway. "Mr Nesbitt's having a celebratory get together tonight with some of the boys. You wanna join?"

Jenny stops walking and gives a hesitant sigh. "I like the Irish mob, okay? They're nice fellas for the most part. But you know the deal: I lend my abilities and you don't pull me into any illegal business."

The blonde man chuckles and nudges her with his elbow. "I know the details of your arrangement with us, Jenny. It's only a few drinks, no illegal shit, I swear."

Jenny purses her lips. Dealing with the gangs of Hell's Kitchen is tricky business, she knows this. But the relationship between the two she affiliates with the most is very obviously friendly. The Kitchen Irish and the Dogs of Hell both treat her like one of their own, and respect her decision to stay out of their more private activities. Both groups know she works for the other, but since she stays out of anything important and therefore has no valuable information to sell off, neither gang minds her… _two-way dealings_ , one could call it.

The truth is, Jenny has a very special gift. When she touches people through skin on skin contact, and if she concentrates a little, she can tell where every cut, scrape, or any other form of physical ailment is on a person. More than that, she has the ability to heal even the most fatal wounds in minutes. Albeit, the procedure is messy, has certain ritualistic-like procedures involved, and she and her patient feel like cow pat afterwards, but she still does is anyway.

Jenny got in with the Irish and the Dogs of Hell at around the same time, and because of this neither of them could claim dibs on her with the 'we knew her first' excuse. From there on, she worked as a healer for the men who needed attention, and in return was paid extremely modestly. The Irish nor the Dogs hurt her on the knowledge that she has made it abundantly clear she's on strictly mutual grounds. She's made plenty of acquaintances, few of them she'd even dare call _friends_ , doing this. And so, a distant yet trustworthy relationship was born between her and the crime families.

So the question is: does she want to go for drinks with the Kitchen Irish?

"Well I'm not doing anything else tonight, so I guess I'll be there." Jenny replies, giving a nonchalant shrug and sipping her cold chocolate beverage.

"That's great!" Rafe exclaims loudly. "I'll tell Boss you're coming."

"You do that." Jenny chuckles lightly at his playful antics and looks back in the direction they came. "I should head back to the apartment and start on today's paperwork. I'll see you tonight, at the normal place?" At his affirmative nod she starts her journey home. She turns back around and calls to him "Make sure Nesbitt has at least one type of non-alcoholic drink for me!"

Rafe lifts one cup in the air as a sign of acknowledgement and continues on his way, rounding a corner and disappearing from view.

Jenny turns on her heel, sipping away, and swims in the noise of the city streets as she goes.

 _Damn, this heat sucks._

* * *

The folder of today's work is complete. Jenny shuts off her laptop, snapping it shut and moving it to the side. Work as an accountant has its perks, and working from home most of the time is one of them. Yes, it's odd for her someone in her occupation to be at home almost all of the time, but Jenny has worked for this company for almost eight years. Two and a half years ago she'd had it with sitting at a desk chair, and told her boss that she'd proven herself an excellent worker time and time again, then asked politely (demanded) to work from home.

Everything gets done on time and passes all expectations. She stops by the office every day or two to pick up and drop off her work and make sure there isn't anything else she can help with, and then goes home. The job pays well and Jenny, in all honesty, is great at what she does.

Some people have told her that she should try something new. _You're 29_ , they say, _don't you wanna get out and have a little fun? Don't you want to find love, have children?_ But Jenny loves her life. Jenny loves her boring job, her abundance of free time. She loves her average apartment, and she loves living alone. She doesn't even mind not having a furry or scale-y or feathery companion. She's perfectly content with her life, and content with whatever said life gives her.

Jenny stands and walks to the mirror by the door. Her face thankfully doesn't have any ink marks, nor do her hands and arms. She fixes the straps of her singlet, pulls the neckline higher over the swell of her breasts which seem adamant on trying to spring out, and adjusts the waistband of her jeggings until the clothing is centred. The night is cooler than the day, thankfully, so Jenny is completely justified to reach up and pull her ashy brown hair from its restraints atop her head. The soft, lengthy strands tumble over her shoulders before they come to rest, making themselves comfortable over the dip in her spine and either sides of her belly button. Jenny slips on a pair of simple flats and throws on her shoulder bag.

She locks the apartment door and ruffles her hair with both hands as she descends the single flight of stairs that lead to the lobby –if you could call the cold, empty room that- and then out into the streets.

* * *

She's almost there, no more than a block or two away. A surge of paranoia eats through her chest and she opens her bag to check everything it still in there as she walks. Phone, wallet, deodorant, water bottle, clean rags, switchblade (a gift from Doug, a friend in the Dogs of Hell), lighter, a thick and well-worn candle. Everything's there, just in case she might need them.

Jenny doesn't look up from her bag; the streets are empty and there's no need to watch out for numerous passers-by like she has to in the daylight. She's about to close her bag up when she rounds the corner and collides with a dark figure.

She stumbles a great deal, but manages to right herself before she falls to the concrete. Her bag strap had slipped from her shoulder during the crash, and though her hand still has a hold on the belt, the satchel itself is sideways and some of the contents have spilled out onto the walkway.

She bends to collect them, first the wallet, then the switchblade. She stashes them away before the stranger crouches and helps her. She picks up her water bottle, and the stranger reaches for the deodorant can and the candle.

Jenny notices first the hands wrapped around the cylindrical items; they are male, calloused, definitely, as though they have handled tools and machinery for a lifetime. The fingers have small nicks and scratches, as do the backs of both hands. The knuckles are bruised and scraped and Jenny has seen enough of these types of markings on mobsters to know they're from distributing repetitive and brutal assaults with a bare fist.

Her gaze is then drawn to the boots. Big, black, laced. With this type of footwear Jenny's surprised she didn't hear him stomping her way from a block's distance. The heels of the boots are lifted from the ground, and all the man's weight is precisely balanced on the balls of the feet with an unwavering steadiness.

She reaches for the objects, closing her hands around them, but also slightly overlapping them atop his. Curiously, she ranges out through their shared skin and feels for him. He is bruised in his shins, his arms. His hands have the worst of it, stinging and throbbing. There's also a sore spot on his right side where's he's undoubtedly been hit or kicked, and the skin on his forehead feels tender. Fascinatingly, there's a minute hole in his skull. Jenny is unsure why the hell it's there or what it is, but she thinks it's a bullet hole and, if so, wonders why this man was shot in the head.

She draws back into herself and slides the spray can and candle from his grasp. As she stand up her fingers guide them into her bag and then swipe some hair from her face before they zip up her satchel. The stranger didn't notice her probing around inside him. It only takes half a moment for her to assess someone and they can't feel it anyway.

"Better watch where you're goin', lady." The man says. Heck, he basically grunts it. Jenny would have found his statement rude but his tone, though gravelly, was light and the corner of his lip was tipped upwards just the slightest. "You might run into someone."

She watches him. His hair is cropped short around the sides, and most probably around the back, to a length that almost seems skin-shaven with a straight-razor. The hairs become gradually longer as her eyes trail upwards, and there is a section on the top that look like a patch of shortly mown grass. But the grass is black. And hair. Jenny figures it's a bad comparison and decides to refer to it as a crew cut.

The bridge of his nose is high and looks as if it has been broken more than once. His jawline is strong and stern and sharp. The man's lips appear soft and delicate; they are light pink and have a gentle curvature like rolling hills, which seem oddly feminine compared to his other features consisting of nothing but clean-cut edges and smart folds wrapped up in a blanket of standard masculinity.

Though he carries a somewhat playful tone and a possibly friendly face, his eyes are completely devoid of the responsive character he's trying to portray. They are small and dark, and the light from the street lamp bounces right off them. Jenny believes that he might be thinking of a far-away time or place, but she can't be certain.

"Thanks." She flexes the muscles around her mouth, pulling her lips into a small grin if only to help him believe she isn't seeing right through his fake pleasantries. He's trying to be polite, at least. "I'll try my best."

"'M kinda curious." The polite stranger starts. "Why d'ya got a candle in your purse?"

Jenny gives a light chuckle, thinking of a way to avoid the question. "Why wouldn't I?" She dares.

The man grunts and holds up his hands in mock surrender. "You got me there."

Her lips quirk up of their own accord this time and she clears her throat. "It was nice chatting with you, but I have somewhere to be." She goes to step past him.

"Careful out there tonight. I heard something's goin' down, you know. Look after yourself."

Being the tall woman she is, Jenny's only an inch or so shorter than him. She presses her lips together and smirks directly at him as she brings her fingers to her temple in a playful salute. "Yes sir."

* * *

She arrives at the Burren Club as Thomas, a golden-haired Irish mobster and her latest patient, drags a large dog from inside the garage. He nods in greeting to her as he passes, clearly too occupied to stay and talk. As he nears the open roller doors two men step around the corner. Mr Nesbitt has never been one for dogs, and it's clear in the way he looks down at the suddenly barking mutt.

Thomas apologises profusely for the dog's behaviour and Nesbitt is quick to account. The boy drags the dog outside and Nesbitt lifts his head up, spying Jenny there with her casual clothes and her satchel.

He smiles briefly, walking over and gripping her shoulder. "It's good to see you, child."

"I'm barely a handful of years younger than you." She responds as he leads her inside, his man following a pace behind. They enter the room, a single long table in the centre and a bar across the back.

"Place smells like dog shit." Nesbitt exclaims.

It really doesn't, maybe a little like wet dog, but it isn't all that bad. Jenny doesn't correct him though.

The men come and greet Mr Nesbitt, and Jenny shares some nods of hello with the few people she actually recognises here. Already at the table are Cullen, Johnny and Rafe. Rafe sits with a smile on his face and a beer in his hand beside Cullen Cooley, the Big Boss' son. Beside Cullen is Johnny, a large, tremendously tall middle-aged man in a blue t-shirt whom Jenny had once saved from a bullet wound to his upper thigh.

The three boys smile as she makes her way over to them, and Rafe pulls up a seat to his left. She plops down and places her bag in her lap.

"Jen, how've you been, old lady?" Cullen asks, smirking, and takes a pull of his beer.

Jenny reaches right over Rafe with an evil grin to mess up Cullen's hair and only stops when Rafe pulls her off. Johnny laughs his deep chuckle and Cullen repeatedly touches his hair, attempting to fix the damage that's been done.

A lot of the guys in this gang are hard ass pricks, but Jenny likes these three, choosing to ignore the fact that they've most likely done some serious law breaking in their time.

"This is a night for celebration." Nesbitt declares, raising his glass. The others round the table do so as well, raising their glasses and bottles. Jenny quickly shoves her hand into her bag and pulls out the bottle of water, unscrewing the lid and raising it like the rest. Nesbitt looks down his nose at her water bottle with smile. "That's some hard stuff you're hitting, child."

Jenny flushes, but grins back through her blush nonetheless. "Don't you know it, Nes."

He rolls his eyes and continues with his speech. Nesbitt speaks greatly of family and duty, and when George, the red-haired drunk, gives a sarcastic comment on being sober, Jenny discretely stands and heads for the bar. She doesn't think Nesbitt would ever snap and lose his temper over something as little as that, but George is known even by her for his disrespectful mouth when he is drinking, which is _always_ , and she doesn't fancy herself being caught in the crossfire should anything happen.

She places her bag on the bar and glances at a man named Elliot, who watches her as she takes a swig from her bottle. Jenny twists the cap back onto the bottle and slides it into her bag before grabbing the tropical juice carton from the cool rack. _Not exactly what she had in mind when she asked for non-alcoholic, but it's good enough._ She pours a glass anyway and heads to the table now that the room isn't as tense. No one notices her, or at least no one pays attention to her, because they are focused too intently on Nesbitt. She's taking her bag off to slide into her chair as the first bullets rain down in quick succession. They embed themselves into Nesbitt, who falls to the ground, and all those at the table are quick to draw their firearms. From there on in it is chaos. Jenny presses herself against the right wall. She watches as the bullets hit their targets on the left side of the room, heading towards the centre, then towards them. Her arms reach out and grab Rafe, who is closest to her, by the scruff of his collar. She yanks with all her might and he is suddenly flat against the wall beside her.

The bullets pause for a jiffy and then resume on the left side of the room again, where there is arguably more men. Jenny takes this chance to crouch down; most of the bullets are aimed at chest height, so she flattens herself. She's belly down on the floor and she's about to pull Rafe's legs out from under him to get him down as well, but he's shooting again, his back coming off the wall. In the next moment a bullet pierces his face, directly underneath his left eye. He shoots twice more as the hard lines of worry and concentration begin to unwillingly unwind on his face. His muscles relax and suddenly he is falling. Down, down, down. He crashes and crumples, face to the ground. She brings a hand to her mouth to stop herself from crying out.

Cullen is next. She sees the spray of bullets heading his way but he's too far for her to move to in time. They hit him in the chest thrice, in the neck once. He's down too, on his back, though.

Jenny sees a shape move through the back of the room, behind the bar, but whoever it is moves out of sight before she recognise them.

The deafening boom of gunshots is slowly thinning out now. The Irish are being mowed down. The last man eventually falls and the bullets cease.

They're all dead.

Jenny waits a period of time much longer than necessary in the eerie silence before hauling herself to her feet. She's relatively clean as far as she can see: no blood beside a bright splash on her upper arm. She doesn't know who it belongs to, but it's not hers. She staggers out of the room, away from the death and the bloodshed.

 _Shit._ Her open palm comes to her forehead. She scrapes the hair away from her face in a fit, trying to control the tears. _Shit._

In and out she breathes, slowing her heartbeat, focusing on her breathing. She creeps into the nearest alley, making sure it's empty, and throws her back against the wall. There, she slides down the wall and onto the pavement. She holds her breath for as long as she possibly can, exhaling in a huff once she can't anymore.

Now as calm as she can bring herself to be, Jenny slips the satchel from her shoulder. In a state of carelessness, she empties her entire bag onto the cement in front of her. She then proceeds to line up the objects, standing them upright or turning them the correct way.

It's not the first time she's seen a dead body, or several. Heck, it's not even the first time she's witnessed a murder. But as always, she's shaken by what she's seen.

She snatches the water bottle up, downing nearly half of what's left, and placing it back in its position. She grabs the rags -cloths?- and folds them up, soaking them with a decent amount of water and wiping the sweat and tears and dirt from her face. Then she cleans he rag once more with water and uses it to wipe the large smear of blood decorating her arm. She gets to her feet, stuffs the now filthy rags in the nearest dumpster, and shoves her belongings back into her satchel.

The tears threaten to well up again and she scolds herself for it. _There's nothing you could have done. Your powers don't work on the dead._

Jenny sighs. There're not many options now. She could go home, but that would result in her crying for hours to come and that isn't something she looks forward to. She could go to the Dogs of Hell for company, but they would ask questions and she doesn't want to be under anyone's gaze at the moment. Or she could walk around until she finds a crowd big enough to slip into and just relax for a while.

She likes the last idea.

* * *

Frank running into her had been an honest accident. He was too busy thinking of what he was about to do to the Irish to focus on what was around the corner. Then she ran right into him, her shoulder knocking his chest as she fumbled through her bag.

She was tall, almost as tall as him, and her hair was incredibly long. It fell all the way to her abdomen in waves of something between yellow and brown. Her eyes were dark like the wood of an old tree.

He had stooped down to help her gather her things. To the public eyes he is an immoral man, and though his night time activities do nothing but support that, even Frank knows he isn't _rude_. A wallet, a water bottle, body spray and… a candle? He isn't one to judge the items a person carries around on them, but of all the things… a _candle_?

Frank asks her why she'd carry a candle with her and she chuckles softly. "Why wouldn't I?" He recognises the deflection tactic. _Smart girl_.

She's polite, and he tries his best to equal her with his manners. Frank plays along with the long haired lady's jest, lifting his hands and yielding his argument. "You got me there."

Her next smile is wider than the first and she clears her throat, trying to pull her lips back into submission. "I have somewhere to be."

 _Right_ , Frank reminds himself, _so do I_. On a similar train of thought, Frank keeps talking despite himself as the long haired lady passes him. He can't help it; the girl's nice and he doesn't want an innocent civilian anywhere near where he's about to throw down. "Look after yourself."

She smirks and salutes him mockingly. "Yes sir."

Frank's nearly happy he ran into her, enjoying the idle chit chat where he doesn't need to be anyone other than himself.

But then she's there at the Burren Club. She's all friendly with a trio of Irishmen and Frank is confused. She's not supposed to be there. He knows the name of every single one of the men in the room and exactly what they've done to deserve what they're about to get, but her? He's got no idea.

He can't back down now. This is his one opportunity to hit the Irish in a way that will shake them. Though she is associating with the mobsters, he hasn't the slightest clue who she is or what she'd done and he can't justify killing her. So, Frank cocks his weapon and waits. He waits until she's out of the way. Of course, he could take them all down without hitting her, but he doesn't want to risk it with the knowledge that she could be innocent. She finally stands, and when she's coming back with a drink in her hand she's by the wall and mostly out of range.

 _One batch, two batch, penny and dime._

He takes his first shot, the butt of the firearm satisfyingly kicking against his shoulder. The speaker, Nesbitt, goes down and the Irishmen jumps to their feet with their weapons drawn. His shots dart across the room, aimed purposefully at the best, the sharpest shooters. The long haired lady is suddenly pressed to the wall. _Smart girl._ He takes down six more men, moving from left to right now that the main threats have been terminated. As he near her side of the room, she reaches for a blonde bearded man close to her and pulls him by his collar against the wall with her.

 _Shit._ The man's behind her, and Frank can't get a clear shot. Instead, he moves back across the room, taking out another few men. When he aims at the blonde at the wall, the thug is moving forward, out from behind the long haired lady who's flat on the floor, and into the clear. Frank doesn't pause. He pulls the trigger when his sight is on the man's face. He topples and the long haired lady covers her mouth and presses herself harder into the floor.

 _Maybe the blonde's her man?_ Frank attempts to recall his name. Piper Rafe. 34. Five feet nine inches. No official spouse. So he isn't - _wasn't_ \- married, but she was protecting him when she pulled him to the wall and his death was the only one that seems to be affecting her. _Perhaps that's the only reason she's affiliated with the Irish_.

But then Cullen Cooley's down, and she seems rattled by that as well. _Friend's with the son of Finn Cooley. Who_ is _this person?_

Through the back, he sees a man run out before he can shoot. Elliot Grote. _He'll get to him later_. The rest of the job is finished quickly now that the woman's out of the way.

Bam, bam, bam.

He waits long after the killing has finished, his sight trained on the woman. She's clever not to move until she thinks he's gone. He doesn't shoot, only watches. She's not his target tonight. The long haired lady pulls herself to her feet after a while, shoulders her bag, and leaves.

Frank lifts his eye from the scope of his gun, flicking on the safety and begins disassembling it.

 _He'll figure out who she is._

* * *

 ** _Don't be afraid to leave a review :)  
_**


	2. 2 Twice the Heat

_I'm absolutely elated to have a handful of followers and favourites after the very first chapter, and thank you so much for the 125 views already! Also a big show of gratitude to the first reviewer on this story, Ji, you're the best! ^w^_

 _Ji: Thanks for your thoughts. Yes, I'd say that even though they're criminals, not everyone in the gangs are necessarily 'bad' people, so it's kind of a grey line that Frank just has to pick a side on, I suppose. And as the story progresses we delve a little further into Jenny's character and come to understand why she does or doesn't forgive Frank for killing her three Irish buddies! Stay tuned :3._

 _Enjoy._

* * *

 **CHAPTER 2**

* * *

25 minutes' walk and a few good cries later, Jenny's outside a bar. The streets were near abandoned for the majority of her walk and this is the first place she has passed that actually manages to light up the street outside. Jenny can hear the noise from out here. She pushes into 'Josie's' and walks right up to the bar.

"Well, you don't look like crap." The unruly lady behind the bar announces sarcastically. "What can I get ya, honey?"

Jenny clenches and unclenched her jaw in uncertainty. She wants to get blind drunk, if only to dampen her nerves for a while, but like always she doesn't have any urge to carry out the act of consuming alcohol. "Orange juice."

The lady cocks a brow. "Whatever you say."

The drink is shortly delivered to her and she swivels on the bar stool, facing the larger area of the crowd. Here, Jenny can watch the many men and women enjoying the pub as they go about their business. Eventually her gaze drifts over to the pool table. There's a man in a loose neck tie tilting over the table with a cue stick in his hand. A petite blonde woman brushes up against him, her body in line with his, and at first Jenny thinks that maybe she's pressing up against him like a lover, but Jenny looks a little closer and notices that the woman is actually guiding the man's arms and hands. If the red circular glasses are anything to base her assumptions on it's because he is blind. The eight ball sinks and a new man on the scene exclaims his disappointment. He's wearing a light pink dress shirt and the colour of his hair is not unlike Jenny's own- only a little darker. His smile is broad and friendly and welcoming as he approaches the other man and woman, who are most likely his friends. The slender woman heads over in Jenny's general direction, stopping close in front of her and conversing with the bartender.

The two men exchange words for a moment before the mood of the conversation seems to change drastically. They take turns facing the bar and sharing words between them. Jenny thinks they are watching the blonde, but their gazes are too far to the left for that. She follows their line of sight and immediately notices the out of place man only two seats down from her.

Jenny slides from her stool to the one nearer the unnerved man. Now brushing shoulders with him, she speaks in a smaller voice. "Elliot, what are you doing here?"

He looks over at her like she's crazy. "Are you serious? After the shit that just went down I'm gonna need protection, the legal kind."

Jenny can't disagree with him. Whoever is responsible for the shooting knew what was going down, where it was, and who would be there. She's fully aware that her mutual ground is well known in the criminal world, so she's surprised something went down while she was there. And though she's ruffled by the recent events, she's 99 percent certain that whoever is hunting down the gangs won't be coming after her. Not to kill her, at least.

Elliot, however, is another story entirely. He's been in his fair share of illegal dealings and illicit activities. He had managed to scramble through the back of the bar to safety, but the killer's bound to be aware of his unlawfulness and not afraid to finish what they started.

The blind man approaches the two of them, and though he asks both of them if they are new here, Elliot is the only one to answer. Jenny remains silent as she listens to the two men talk. Soon enough they are sitting at a more private table by the side wall. It turns out the three pool table goers are legal representatives, the two men being lawyers of their own firm.

Matthew, Franklin and Karen, as Jenny had learnt their names were, listen intently as Elliot recounts the massacre. Jenny takes this time to study them, as she does with most people during her first encounter.

Karen Page is absolutely beautiful. Her light hair and lighter complexion leaves her seeming as if she's glowing. The strands of hair that won't stay confined in her professional-looking bun manage to cascade around her face and frame it perfectly. Her nose is sloped and pointy and her lips are full and well-coloured. Karen's eyes stand out even brighter than the rest of her; they're blue as the sky in summer and shaped like macadamia nuts- big and round. Her face is perfectly symmetrical aside from a beauty spot above the top corner of her lip and a freckle beside her right eye.

Matthew Murdock has a slightly hooked nose. It's an unattractive feature on its lonesome, but coupled with the many other assets of his face it suits him just right. His jawline is strong and blanketed by dark, unkempt stubble, which matches with his dishevelled-yet-somehow-tamed, equally dark hair. Since his eyes are covered, Jenny's gaze is immediately drawn to his lips. They are dark pink, nestled down with his facial hair, and upon first glance seem rather square shaped. Now that he's leaning in closer, she can make out the round, gentle lines of his bottom lip and the peaked heights of his wide-spread cupid's bow.

Franklin Nelson's attention grabber is his hair, which flows out in placid waves from its centre part and brushes against his shoulders. His lips are the same colour as his shirt. His eyes are small and bright and happy. His brows are so light Jenny struggles to see them clearly from across the table. The man has some weight to him and Jenny likes it. His nose is tiny, sharp, and his jaw is clean shaven. From what she has gathered thus far, Jenny figures he wears his emotions clear as crystal on face and is therefore a man with few secrets.

"Go see for yourself. Burren Club, 47th and 10th. You can't miss it." Elliot explains. "It's the part of the city that looks like a goddamn… war zone."

"What's your involvement in their organisation?" Karen asks as she crosses her arms.

"Who's she?"

"Answer the question." Franklin demands.

Elliot sighs, looking down at the table and then back up. "Drop offs, pick-ups. Sometimes doing thing I shouldn't be."

Matthew looks to Jenny. "Do you have any way to support this?"

She shrugs. "The most incriminating thing I've seen him do is pour a man a drink"

"How well do you know this person, exactly?" Franklin asks with a vague gesture to Elliot.

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and bites down briefly, thinking of how best to reply. Jenny has no intention of making herself seem like a criminal or giving her abilities away. "He and I have very different relations with the Kitchen Irish, so I've only ever met him a few times before tonight. I don't know him all that well."

"And what _is_ your relation with the Kitchen Irish, if I may?" Karen asks, her perfect brows knit in determination.

"Friendly." Jenny answers not untruthfully.

"Let me rephrase that." Matthew says and he lays his forearms on the table and leans in a little. "How are you connected to all of this?"

"I'm not." Jenny's quick to reply. "I don't know anything about the shooting. I was only there for drinks with a few of the guys. Some of them were my friends." _Rafe, Cullen, Johnny._

"And they just _let_ some _friend_ into a Kitchen Irish gathering?" Franklin asks suspiciously.

Jenny shoots him a semi-agitated look. "The reason behind my close relations with the Irish is private. There were no intimacies, it's not tied to anything illegal, and I can safely say it had nothing to do with a possible motive for the killing, so I'm not going to tell you."

Franklin seems to glance at Matthew for confirmation on whether she is being honest, and Matthew nods slightly. _Why? How would a blind man know if someone is lying? Tone of voice, maybe._ The thought isn't that preposterous, so Jenny thinks nothing more of it.

"I was only there for social reasons and can't be charged for anything because of it. I'll give my statement as a witness to the crime, then I'm gone."

"Leaving's not a good idea. The Irish were hit by a powerful crime syndicate tonight. If the two of you are the only ones to survive, your misfortune's gonna rub some dangerous people the wrong way." Matthew declares.

"No shit!" Elliot snaps in a state of exasperation. "I got a pack of killers gunning for my men. My people think I'm a traitor or a rat." He shakes his head and sighs.

Jenny just wants to go home. She can't wait for a cold shower and a bed. She speaks next. "I'm not involved in the Irish's illicit activities. This killer has gone after specific targets: unlawful and dangerous. I'm neither of those. So unless you can give me a reason to think he'll finish the job, I'm gonna stick to my original plan."

When no one else voices their objection Jenny turns sideways on her stool and slouches against the poster on the wall behind her that tells one how to help a victim of choking.

After some furthering arguing, Elliot gives up his name- Grotto- and they settle on representing him until he can get out of Hell's Kitchen and start anew.

"Lie low." Franklin assures him. "We'll look into it."

Elliot lets out a great big sigh of relief, glad to finally have some stable figurative ground to relax on. Matthew is halfway through asking him if he has a place to stay when Elliot starts to teeter on his chair. Jenny realises what's happening and reaches for him, but only manages to snag the tip of his jacket sleeve before it slips from her grasp and he falls on his back upon the bar floor.

Karen is quick to jump to his side and Jenny is equally as quick to follow suit. The blonde lady taps his face and tries to stir him, but he's out cold. Elliot's jacket then falls open to reveal a large, red stain on his shirt's side. Jenny's instincts kick in and she ushers Karen out of the way with a firm but gentle nudge. She grabs a hold of his bare hand and, pretending to be assessing his wound, reaches into him in order to figure out what's wrong. In a moment she lets go and stands, turning to the three legal representatives.

"He's been shot in the side. None of his organs have been punctured but he's lost too much blood. If we get him to a hospital soon he'll be fine."

With that, Franklin whips out his phone and has an ambulance on the way in seconds. Jenny is tempted to heal Elliot right then and there, but she's lacking a water container big enough to fit him in, there are a lot of people watching, and the ambulance is going to get there on time anyway.

Jenny haphazardly sweeps her hair into low, untidy bun as she waits for help to arrive.

* * *

Matt's uncertain of the girl. She was truthful when she said she's not tied in to the illegal trades of the Irish or the shooting, she also fully believes that she's not in any danger of the killers returning for her, but she's obviously hiding _something_. Jenny'd barely even looked at Grotto for two seconds before she knew what was wrong with him. And she was correct, too; Matt got exactly the same reading from the injured man as she had.

She smells mostly of grapefruit, the scent of her body wash and shampoo. She's also tainted by the smell of sweat, blood, and grime, and if Matt focuses he can faintly smell gunpowder. Jenny's heart beats are unwaveringly strong, steady and unwavering, always. Even when she was being grilled with questions, even when they all stared down at her as if she was guilty. The only time it jumped was when Grotto began his tumble and she reached for him, and it skipped slightly for the second she was touching his skin.

The most peculiar thing about Jenny has nothing to do with the way she acts, or even her sturdy heart beat (Matt had come across quite a few people like that). It's how hot she is, and not appearance wise. She is literally burning up; her body is always _at least_ eight degrees hotter than the average person. And yet she functions exactly like every other human being. The heat has no effect on her at all other than make her warmer.

Matt shakes his head. He shouldn't be one to view her as a bad person because she's different, otherwise he would have to do so to himself. She obviously has some kind of gift, as does he, and it would be unfair to pry unless he actually finds something that incriminates her- and having drinks with friends, though the friends were bad people, doesn't make her any less innocent than she claims to be.

He's just going to have to see where this goes.

* * *

Jenny's in the hospital with Karen and Elliot. After a quick conversation, Jenny persuaded Karen not to use Elliot's real name on the grounds that if someone's looking for him, finding him would be too easy. Right now they were Steve and Isabelle, a married couple, and Steve's sister, Emily.

After Elliot woke, Karen explained the situation to him and excused herself to the corner of the room to call Franklin and tell him Grotto's awake. Jenny snagged her opportunity to apologise profusely to Elliot for not healing him, and though annoyed, he understood there were a lot of people watching.

Now, Jenny is travelling through one of the many hallways of the Metro-General in search of an exit door. She's decided to head out, find some company. And though she feels safe already, Jenny is going to the place she feels safest: the Dogs of Hell bar. Doug, Sharpe, Molly, and maybe even Jim should be there and she's looking forward to seeing them.

She rounds a corner and collides with someone. This time she's not distracted and only has to take a single step backwards to gain her footing. Jenny looks up and blinks at the dark figure that still seems so gloomy even while under the white lights of the hospital hallway.

"Fancy seeing you here." She jokes with a tilt of her head at the polite stranger.

His voice is as gruff as she remembers when he speaks. "I was thinkin' the same thing." He's eyeing her suspiciously, and she wonders what's going through his mind. He keeps his tone as light and friendly as he seemingly can. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

She doesn't skip a beat as she delivers her fib. "Friend's friend got into a spot of trouble. I'm just on my way to grab coffee for her."

Jenny doesn't miss the way he's holding his hands slightly further back around his hips than what would be considered normal, but she doesn't ask him about it. There's a moment of silence in which he watches her like a hawk before he puts up his polite stranger façade again.

The man's ears protrude noticeably from the sides of his face, and the lobes are large and wide. Jenny watches them as his eyes drink in her face. A thought miraculously appears in her head. "Earlier tonight you said that something was going down and I should be careful. Why?"

Jenny moves her gaze from his ears to his eyes, watching and waiting for his answer. His jaw remains sturdy, tight, and she can see the cogs and wheels turning in his head as he thinks. "Heard the Irish were gettin' together. Never know what they might do after too much alcohol, you know."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "No, I mean how'd you know there was going to be a shooting?"

The polite stranger's brows shoot up in momentary surprise. "Shooting? So then somethin' really did happen with 'em. Glad to see you're okay."

Jenny nods, the lies coming easy to her. "Yeah I'm fine. I wasn't anywhere near there when it happened, I just heard it. Apparently someone's wiped a whole room full of Irish out."

He gives a soft whistle. "Can't say I'll be sorry to see them gone." Jenny's too busy looking at the ground to notice he's watching for her reaction.

Her jaw clenches and her shoulders stiffen. _Rafe, Cullen, Johnny_. Jenny lifts her head and plasters on a broad smile. "They always were a rumpus bunch, weren't they?" She jests. He doesn't give any clever remark or quip. Jenny swallows hard. "Well I, err, better grab the coffee then. Don't wanna keep her waiting."

"Don't let me stop you." He gives a tight, closed-lip smile and steps slightly out of the way.

She nods in thanks and is about to walk past when he stops her with his words, not unlike the last time they bumped into each other. "What's your name?" He asks roughly.

She turns to him and smiles once more in formality, extending her hand to him. "Jennevieve. Lynch. But I'd prefer Jenny, if we ever meet again."

He doesn't take her hand, keeping his tucked behind him, but gives a wide toothy smile instead, his eyes scrunching up around the edges. She retracts her hand and fiddles with her bag strap. Jenny opens her mouth to ask him his name, but he cuts her off by perking up as if remembering something important and turning around the way she'd come from. He takes a step in that direction then turns back to Jenny. "Shit, I'm sorry. Gotta go."

There's no time for questioning as he walks away with purposeful strides. Jenny watches him for a moment. He brings his hands slightly to the front, out of her view. She never got to ask him his name or why he was here, but if he's visiting a loved one and is in a rush to see them, she isn't going to get in his way.

Jenny turns and heads further through the hospital. Soon, she is out of Metro-General and on her way to the bar.

* * *

Dogs of Hell is crowded, dark, smoky, hot: exactly what you'd expect a biker gang hangout to be. Jenny sits behind the pool table, her eyes closed as she listens to the welcomed drone of music and chatter. Molly's playing pool with Jim and Sharpe and one other fellow that Jenny's half certain is named Rex, but she doesn't really care. Doug's out tonight planning some motor theft or another that she doesn't want to know about.

Jenny holds the glass of ice against her forehead and groans in pleasure. _Far out, that's nice._ The game continues for quite some time before the chatter between her friends stops completely. Jenny opens her eyes to see Franklin. She nearly growls in irritation, not because Franklin's there- she actually likes him-, but because she came here to get away from everything and now he's bringing it to her, purposefully or not. He sees her behind the pool table and before he can acknowledge her she shakes her head in a silent _don't talk to me_. Franklin's a lawyer, and she doesn't want the Dogs to be suspicious of her because she knows him. Sharpe and Rex grab him roughly and Franklin is shoved over the pool table, his hair fanning everywhere and covering the graphic drawing on the green felt.

"What's your name?" Molly grips the wooden edge of the table and leans in as he speaks.

"F-Foggy! Franklin Nelson!" He stutters in a rush.

"Never heard o' you." Molly shakes his head.

"I've known Smitty for a long time." Franklin explains.

 _Damn it_ , Jenny thinks. Smitty was a high ranking member in the Dogs of Hell. A few weeks back he and his team were gunned down and they died before Jenny was able to get to them. He's still a tender subject for the rest of the gang.

"Oh, yeah?" The bearded biker questions. "Me too."

Franklin talks until eventually the subject of careers comes up, and he tells them honestly that he's a lawyer. _Damn it again_. Jenny stands and walks over to Molly, who looks seriously peeved. She doesn't dare touch him while he's riled up, but she's close enough to make him turn to her.

"Molly, remember our deal." She makes herself sound casual, careful not give away she cares for the man in the pink shirt or stir the biker even further by baby-talking him. "I don't want any killing while I'm here." He didn't seem completely persuaded. "And cleaning up the body just wastes effort and resources."

Franklin looks like he's about to say something again, possibly agree with her, but at the look on her face he stays quiet.

"I remember the deal, J." He snaps. He sighs, gripping the table edged a bit harder. Molly looks up to the tall man with the buzz cut, Sharpe, and tips his chin up. "Take our guest outside and show him how we feel about lawyers." Jenny nudges him softly with her elbow. "'N I don't want no blood to clean up."

She clenches her jaw to stop herself from exhaling in relief. It's true she just subjected a kind man to a beating, but at least he'd be alive tomorrow. After a few minutes, Sharpe waltzes back in and Jenny sighs loudly to grab the men's attention.

"You right, chicky?" Jim asks, resting himself on his upright pool cue.

Jenny puts on a weary expression and nods. "Yeah, just a little tired. I've had enough excitement for today." She pulls herself to her feet and shoulders her bag. "I'm gonna scram, Jim." She walks past the pool table, purposefully dragging her feet just a little, and pats Molly on the arm as she goes. With a final "Night, guys" she leaves the upper room and heads through the bar.

Once she's out in the fresh air she passes the door keeper and rounds the corner. Her tired façade vanishes immediately and then she's sprinting into the back alley. Franklin is nowhere to be seen and so she rushes back out and down the street. She finally spies his pink shirt and messenger bag up ahead and jogs to him. Jenny grabs him by the shoulder and he halts in his tracks. Her hand comes up to his cheek and before he can say anything she pushes into him. Though the muscles in his upper arms are somewhat sore from being pulled and stretch awkwardly, he's unhurt.

She let's go of his face and shoulder and steps away. "You're fine." She states the obvious with a disbelieving exhale.

He pouts. "Physically, I am. But I'm going to be wetting the bed for a month because of this."

She laughs half-heartedly and pulls him into a loose hug. "I thought they were going to kill you."

"Me too." They break the hug and he crosses him arms, suddenly frowning. "Seriously Jenny, the Kitchen Irish _and_ the Dogs of Hell? How many other gangs are you working for?"

"There's no one else. And I'm not working for them, I just… help them sometimes." He sighs in frustration. "Wait, that didn't come out right. What I mean is that when they get hurt, most of them are wanted thugs and they can't go to the hospital so they call me. I'm good at that kind of stuff. The healing, I mean." _Well, it's not a complete lie, I just left out the part where I heal them with my gift_ _._

"You patch up criminals." It's a statement, not a question.

"Yes. But I don't partake in _or_ witness any of their crimes. It's part of our deal: I heal them and they don't drag me into their illegal shit."

"You just had me subjected to a beating by a biker gang member!"

"It was either that or getting stabbed repeatedly until you die." Jenny reasons. "And Sharpe's a nice guy, for a Dog, he wouldn't have drawn it out for too long." Franklin is about to speak but she beats him to it. "What the hell do you think you're doing just walking right in there?! They would have killed you!"

His arms uncross as he defends himself. "I knew one of theirs a while back. I came to talk to him about the mass shootings but it turns out he was a victim of them. His name was-"

"Smitty, I know. I'm the one who didn't get there on time to patch him up." Jenny sighs. "How'd you get out of there unharmed, anyway?"

"Your friend Sharpe and I found some mutual ground." Franklin shrugs.

"I'm sorry." She sighs. "Even though you got out, I'm sorry I couldn't help you more…" Jenny looks to the ground, a pang of guilt slicing through her for not being able to protect the happy-go-lucky guy before her.

"Hey," He wraps his hand gently around her forearm. "You did great. I was silly, and you took most of the heat off me. So thank you." His hand drops back to his side.

Jenny straightens herself out, a wave of _real_ tiredness washing over her. "I'm going to go home. Have a good night, Franklin."

"Franklin?" he asks incredulously with a smile.

"That is your name, isn't it?"

"Can't you just call me Foggy?"

"Nope."

Franklin sighs overdramatically. "Okay then. Good night, Jennevieve."

She bristles at the name and her brows furrow in annoyance at his smug smirk. Jenny clicks her jaw in agitation and huffs. "Good night, _Foggy_."

The man smiles triumphantly as she walks away. "Good night, Jenny!"

* * *

 **Review :)**


	3. 3 Pwrs R Hlpfl

_I have no words to properly thank you for your support of this story. It means so much that people are actually reading my work and enjoying it. I'm so grateful._

 _Thanks to all my new followers since last chapter and, as always, thanks to my lovely reviewers. You're the best._

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3**

* * *

Jenny doesn't go out to the coffee house the next morning. She stays at home and works. Last night she passed out in her towel, her body still wet from the shower. She doesn't remember what she dreamed about, rewarded with only a spike of sadness and helplessness if she tries. Her folder for the day is pages away from being completed and the sun's been in the sky for no longer than two hours.

 _Oh where, oh where_ _,_ _can my baby be?_

The sound of her phone going off makes Jenny lift her gaze from the many notes and papers scattered across the table top. She places her pen down and smiles slightly, humming along with the tune as she strolls to the couch.

 _The Lord took her away from me._

 _She's gone to heaven so I've got to be good._

She's in no rush to answer, enjoying the song as she pulls her phone from within her satchel.

 _So I can see my baby when I leave thi-_

"Hello?"

"Miss Lynch, this is Officer Steve Reedley. We've been made aware that you were witness to the shooting on 47th and 10th last night."

"Err, yes, that's correct."

"We're going to need to you down at the station this morning to take you statement. When are you able to come in?"

Jenny sighs. She could tell Officer Steve Reedley that she'd only be able to make it after lunch and buy herself some alone time or she could head over now and spare herself the hours of anxious build up.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

* * *

As it turns out, the slaughter of the men from the Irish, the Cartel, and the Dogs of Hell were all carried out by just one man. Right after Jenny had left the hospital last night he was there, and he went after Elliot and Karen. They barely got away with their brains not blown out.

That thought irks Jenny. For someone who is fully capable of taking down nearly two dozen men from a different room, he sure seems to struggle shooting one guy in close quarters. _Unless he wasn't shooting to kill._ It doesn't seem at all a far-fetched idea, in fact, it fits perfectly. This man hunts down criminals: murderers, thieves, drug dealers, rapists, human traffickers, so he wouldn't be going out of his way to shoot down an innocent woman. The way Karen had described the incident, the firing all around, his never being more than a step behind, makes it sound like he was herding them out. To Jenny, it sounds as if this man was trying to move them out of the hospital, away from the civilians.

She shakes her head. She shouldn't be trying to decipher the mind of a mass murderer.

Foggy bursts through the door. He envelopes Karen in a hug and pats Jenny's arm as he moves past her. Seating himself beside Elliot, the lawyer immediately begins hammering him with questions, most of which Elliot is unable to answer. Jenny is only half listening, too bundled up in her own thoughts. His last words catch her attention, though.

"That guy was the Grim Reaper."

 _Grim Reaper_. It's fitting, she supposes…

The door opens and a man in uniform steps into the interrogation room. His skin is dark and his eyes are sunken, as if he hasn't had a good rest in days.

"I'm Sergeant Mahoney. Mr. Grote, I've got some clothes for you." He places the folded orange jumpsuit on the table, and the white canvas shoes atop it.

"What? Am I arrested?" Elliot asks, looking like he's about to panic.

"Protective custody while we figure out witness protection." Foggy assures him with a sombre voice.

"Let's let him change. You three wanna step outside with me for a sec?"

Foggy, Karen and Jenny follow him out into the hallway. As they walk towards the bullpen, Sergeant Mahoney stops them and addresses Jenny. "You're free to go, Miss Lynch. Thank you for your statement, your time and your cooperation."

She nods politely and turns to say good bye to Foggy and Karen, but the blonde lawyer pulls her aside while Karen walks with Mahoney. "Listen, Jenny. I know you probably just wanna go home right now but I need your help." She observes his face closely. Lines of worry are etched deep into his brow and his eyes are sad and desperate. His mouth is nothing but a frown. "Matt got into some trouble and ended up falling down a flight of stairs. He says he's fine and he seems pretty okay, but he banged his head pretty hard and I was wondering, since this is kinda your thing, if you could go over for a while and check up on him. Maybe look after him for a bit?"

Jenny sighs, and Foggy is quick to continue. "It's only if you're free and if you want to. You really don't have to. It's up to you." His words are rushed and she smiles coolly, putting both her hands on his shoulders to calm him.

"Of course I'll go check up on him. Though I have to ask, why doesn't he go to the hospital?"

Foggy scoffs. "I tried to get him to go, but he's pretty certain he's fine, even though he doesn't look it. I'm just so worried, and I can't see him cause I'm so busy here and-."

"I've got this, Foggy." Jenny interrupts, sliding her hand off his shoulders. "Go deal with your lawyer stuff. Now, what's his address?"

* * *

She knocks on the door, the side of her fist pounding against the dense material and creating loud echoes that bounce off the walls in the empty corridor.

Not many moments later the door opens to reveal Matthew Murdock pulling a dark grey t- shirt over himself. The only other thing he's wearing is a pair of grey sweatpants, though they are several shades lighter than the shirt. He isn't wearing his glasses either, so Jenny gets her first look at his eyes. She's not sure what colour to describe them as: brown? Yellow? Hazel? _They remind her of honey…_ Whatever colour they are, they stare unseeingly at the juncture where Jenny's neck meets her shoulder.

"Hello?" Matt asks. "Is someone there?"

 _Right, blind._ "Matthew, hi. It's Jenny."

He perks up as if noticing her for the first time. "Uh, hello. What are you doin' here?"

Jenny smiles despite him not being able to see it. "Foggy told me you took a nasty fall down some stairs and bumped your head. He sent me over to check up on you. He's really worried."

"That's nice, Jenny, but I'm fine." _He's trying to get me to leave._

"He told me you would say that." She leans against the door frame, her shoulder brushing his hand that rests there. The movement appears accidental, and she reaches out while in contact with him in a feel for the extent of his injuries before abruptly standing up straight again. "Sorry, didn't mean for that." Lie. "Didn't see your hand." Lie.

His body is beaten and bruised all over, as if he's been used as a punching bag. There are cuts sprinkled along his shoulders, torso and legs. His face is sliced open along his left cheekbone and the very corner of his lip is split, but Jenny doesn't need her ability to know that.

"So, are you going to let me in or are we gonna stand in the doorway till sundown?"

Matthew sighs loudly like he's about to object, but not wanting to be rude answers "Sure, come in."

Jenny follows him through the door and observes him as she trails the backs of his fingers against the wall for guidance. The makeshift hallway comes to an end and before her is a spacious living room. Two chairs and a couch surround a coffee table, all of them upon a large, sand coloured rug. To the left is a bedroom, which she can see clearly into, and to the right is a kitchen. It's decently sized, and like the rest of the apartment, it's well organised.

Matthew situates himself on the far end of the couch and pulls one leg up. Jenny walks closer and plops her bag on the coffee table, and then she seats herself on the opposite end of the couch to him. He reaches for the table and makes for his glasses, unfolding the thin metal arms.

"You don't need to wear those, you know." She says right before he's about to slide them on. Her words make him pause and though his eyes remain in the direction of the wall behind her, his head cocks to face her. "I'm perfectly fine without you hiding half your face from me." Her tone is playful, and it's clear he recognises this, but he does not smile or smirk or laugh. Only folds his glasses back up and places them back upon the table.

"I'm really okay, Jenny." He insists. "You don't need to waste your time here. I'll be fine."

One of her brows lifts as he speaks and her head tilts downwards as she looks at him unperturbed by his attempt at persuading her to leave. "You're fine?" She asks sceptically, though she does not expect him to answer. "Tell me, Matthew Murdock, that there isn't an almost-silent ringing in your ear that just won't go away. That there's not a throbbing at the back of your eyes. There's no swelling pressing and pushing against the top corner of your skull where you hit it?" Jenny knows that's entirely what's happening because she was just there, feeling around in his wounds.

"How did you…"

"It's not that hard to figure out. The angle of the bump gives it all away." Lie. "The position, in the hairline directly above your eye, it's real sensitive and what you're feeling is exactly what happens when you knock it." More lies.

He 'hmphs', impressed, and settles back into the couch. "That's pretty accurate for just an observation."

"I've picked up a few things in my time." She shrugs.

"In your _time_?" He questions, his first smile in her singular company gracing his face. "You make it sound like you're ancient or something."

"I'm barely older than you, thank you very much! What are you? 27, 28?"

He chuckles, baring his teeth. "28."

"That's what I thought." She half grumbles.

"So tell me, Doc, how can I put myself on the fast road to recovery?"

"Well, since you're adamantly refusing to go to the hospital, the best thing you can do for yourself is relax. Take the day to rest, eat, drink plenty of water, and take your pain medication. There's not much else to do besides wait for the symptoms to pass."

"Yes ma'am."

Jenny notices a basket of clean laundry in one of the chairs opposite them. She stands and makes for it, lifting it and resting it against her hip.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

"You need to relax. I'm gonna fold your laundry and put it away."

"That's really not necessary." He argues, sitting up straight.

"Matthew." Her tone is sharp and clipped. "Sit down and relax, or I'll tie you down and leave you there."

He falls back onto the couch with a huff and Jenny walks to the bedroom. It isn't hard to figure out which drawer holds what, and soon she is folding and putting away the articles of clothing at a steady pace. She's three quarters of the way through when she hears something from the living space, making her pause.

"You better be lying down when I get out there." Jenny calls. She receives no answer, and so returns to her task. Suddenly there is a smash, the sound of glass shattering upon the floor. She's half way out the door when Matthew's back slams into the brick wall between the large, arched windows. She rushes to him and she's nearly within arm's reach when he starts yelling. The first one is quiet, the next one louder, until he is shouting at the top of his lungs.

Jenny stands there completely lost on what to do.

"Matthew! Calm down! Matthew!"

He pays no attention to her. His hands are smacking the walls, the floor, making as much noise as possible and yet he continues to wail.

 _He can't hear_ , she realises, _he's lost his hearing_.

Jenny crouches down as close to him as she can without being hit by his flying fists. She extends her hands and catches his face in them, cradling his cheeks in her overly warm palms. This only seems to startle him however, as his movements become more frantic and violent. Jenny, using her weight to her advantage, places herself in his lap, subduing his legs. With a knee on either side of his hips, she straddles him, keeping him grounded. His hands close over hers on his face, gripping her as if she might suddenly slip from his fingers. The grip is so tight it makes her hiss in pain, but she does not retract her hands.

His shouting stops and he inhales deeply, his chest heaving with every intake of breath.

"Jenny." The name comes out as a breath, but she is quick to respond. Unsure of any other way to let him know it's her, Jenny takes one of his hands and guides it to her face. The heel of his palm sits to the side of her chin and his palm cups her face, his fingers resting against her upper temple. The contact makes him still for a brief moment before he is panicking again.

"I can't hear anything." He pants, his voice drowning in fear. "Jenny, I can't hear."

Thanking fast, she presses his hand firmer to the side of her face before sliding it down to where their abdomens meet. His palm lies on hers facing the high ceiling and Jenny pulls her other hand from his cheek. She traces letters into his upturned palm with her index finger.

"C." He spells aloud.

"A"

"L."

M."

"Calm. Calm." Matthew closes his eyes and breathes in, out. "I'm calm."

Jenny takes this as an opportunity to move them out of this now-awkward position. She slides off of his lap and sits cross legged in front of him, pushing his knees until he gets the memo and does the same. His sightless eyes are trained on her left collarbone as she takes his palm and traces more reassurances into it.

 _relax, u r fine, i m here, breathe, relax, calm, calm, focus, calm._

Every time he begins to panic she takes his hand and squeezes.

Through their shared skin, she can sense the swelling of his head injury. It's pressing against something in his brain it shouldn't be, but it's rapidly deflating and she knows that soon he'll be back to normal.

After a particularly long silence filled with nothing but their breathing, the sound of a loud knock carries through the room. It makes her jump but she doesn't care because Matthew's head perks up. Another knock echoes through the room and Jenny again ignores it, too busy watching as he blinks repeatedly. He brings his fingers to his ear and clicks them. Matthew's entire face melts in relief as he registers the sound.

"Matthew?" She asks quietly. "Matthew can you hear me?"

He nods feverishly. "Yeah. Yes. I can." He stands and looks as though he is about to head for the door, but instead he wraps his arms around Jenny's shoulders. "Thank you so much."

"Anytime. It's some pretty nasty stairs you fell down, you know." She doesn't hug him back. "You should get the door."

He releases her and disappears behind the dividing wall. Jenny stays where she is by the wall, her mind racing with possible causes for the swelling in Matthew's skull. He returns only moments later with Karen by his side. The way Karen looks at Matthew goes anywhere but over Jenny's head and she's mostly certain a private talk is about to start. Before anyone else can say something Jenny strides to the table and grabs her satchel. She turns to Matthew. "I'm fairly certain that the cause for the swelling is blood flow. The more you move, the more blood pumps through, and the higher the chances of having a… an _episode_ become. The effects are temporary and will wear off once the blood flow has lessened, and in a few days the swelling will be gone completely and you'll be A-okay."

She makes for the door, very aware that the pending conversation between Karen and Matthew is bound to be extremely personal.

"Wait!" Karen exclaims. "You should know: the guy that gunned down your Irish friends and shot up the hospital… They're calling him the Punisher."

Jenny mouths the word to herself. _Punisher_. _Hmm, that's a new one._ Jenny continues to the door without giving a comment on the name.

"Take care of yourself Matthew!" She calls as he nears the exit. "You too, Karen!"

And then the door is shut and Jenny is on her way home.

* * *

She's right outside her apartment building when her phone rings.

 _Oh where, oh where can my ba-_

"Doug?" She answers, holding the phone to her ear.

"Hey, yeah, Jenny. Listen," Doug starts. "Fat Man had an accident. His bike fell on him and his leg's busted up real bad. Think you can come by? I've got the cash in my pocket right now."

She groans into the phone. "I just got home. I'm not walking all the way across town."

"Yeah, yeah. It's covered." Doug brushes her concerns off. "Got Queenie on 'is way to pick ya up. He'll be there in five. I'll get the stuff ready."

Sure enough, Queenie is there in five minutes. The burly, tattooed biker has a bushy salt and pepper beard and a shaved head and he doesn't smile as he greets her. "Jenny." He inclines his head at her and that is all.

Jenny smiles nonetheless and seats herself behind him, gripping the leather of his sleeveless Dogs of Hell jacket as he takes off. The ride is quick and the wind that caresses Jenny's face is cool and soothing. They arrive at a garage, one that Jenny has never been inside before, and Queenie leads her through it. Inside is dimly-lit and cool. There are bikes and miscellaneous pieces of equipment around the space, and a few people are playing around with the machinery. A truck reels in through a closing roller door; the driver's cabin is white and the trailer is missing, exposing the chassis underneath.

Doug is hanging off its side like Tarzan, and upon seeing Jenny the late 40-ish year old jumps down and pulls her into a tight embrace. "Jenny. How's my favourite girl?"

Jenny laughs and pulls out of his constricting hug. "Don't try and sweet talk me, Mister. You and I both know that you only keep me around for my help." She slaps his arm lightly with the back of her hand.

Doug chuckles. "You got me there. Don't mean I can't enjoy ya pretty face now, does it?" The biker turns to his three men. "Jim and the boys are unloadin' the trailer. We're breakin' this down for parts." He opens the door, blocking whatever is in there from Jenny's view, and hoists something out.

A body collapses onto the cement and Jenny, taken by surprise, lets out a squeak. "What the H-E- double hockey sticks, Doug?!" Jenny turns her back to them, cupping her hands around her eyes just in case she looks at the body with her peripherals. "You know the deal!"

"I'm sorry, J. But we had to get this done ASAP." He doesn't sound sorry at all. There's a scuffling sound and Doug tells her she can turn around.

The body is gone and Jenny huffs in annoyance, crossing her arms to further illustrate her disapproval. "Did you really have to kill him?"

Doug rolls his eyes as if she's asked him why the sky's blue, but he answers even so. "He was stealing from us. Tried to take our parts and sell 'em for himself." When Jenny does nothing but suck her bottom lip into her mouth Doug gestures to a hallway his head. "This way."

She follows him through the garage, down the hallway, and into a room on the left. Fat Man is slouched in a chair, his obviously injured leg elevated on a low stool. Despite what his name would have someone believe, Fat Man is actually incredibly scrawny and short, with a face like a rat and greasy, higgledy-piggledy hair. Jenny has never spoken to this man before, only having seen him around while here on business, but she recognises him nonetheless.

Jenny inspects his leg. Over the entire top of his shin is a deep scrape- wide and lengthy. The only reason he's not bleeding profusely is because the majority of the wound has been burnt and blisters cover most of it. Around the edges of the sizable injury the skin is splotched with blue and purple bruises and is tight with swelling.

"Sheesh." Jenny whistles. "That looks like it hurts."

Fat Man laughs whole heartedly. "Like a bitch." He quips.

"How many candle have you got for me? I'm gonna need a lot of wax." Jenny asks Doug.

"Five. Is that enough?"

She chucks him her lighter. "Yes. Light them up, please." As Doug squats over the plain white candles on the floor beside Fat Man's chair, Jenny kneels on the floor and begins unlacing his boot. "Okay, tell me what happened."

As she removes his ankle blade, boot and sock, Fat Man describes to her how he accidently knocked the kickstand out from under his bike, causing it to fall on him. It crushed his leg and the hot metal from the bike's underbelly burnt the open would until his buddy yanked it off him.

Under his elevated leg, directly in front on his chair, is a tall vessel of cold water. Jenny lifts his leg by the ankle and suspends his foot above the sturdy plastic container. "Brace yourself." Jenny says. And then she plunges his leg into it in one fluid movement.

Fat Man lets out a hiss and a rather colourful curse as his wound is submerged. The water line comes all the way up to his knee and laps at the joint.

"I'm gonna head out now. Got shit to get done." Doug says. "Your cash is here." He shoves the notes into the front lip of her bag and swiftly exits the room, closing the door.

"Is this gonna hurt much?" Fat Man asks with a trace of uncertainty on his face. "I mean, I heard o' what you can do but I ain't ever seen it myself."

"No, no. From here on in it's completely painless." Jenny assures him. "Though, you'll be feeling like shit for the next day or two."

Without waiting for him to respond she pushes both her hands into the water, grabbing at the back of his ankle with one hand and his calf with the other. And then, slowly, the water begins to warm up and bubbles begin to rise to the surface. Only few at first, but there are more and more and suddenly the water is bubbling and boiling, scalding hot. But Fat man does not feel it; it doesn't hurt at all.

Jenny is a different story. Though the scorching water doesn't actually _hurt_ her, she is feeling the full heat of it. The hotness spreads over her body, seeping into her skin and down to her very bones. Her abnormally high body temperature sky rockets to new heights.

She pulls her hands from the water after a few minutes and the bubbling ceases immediately. The water is still after a short time and despite it being the tiniest bit dark from his blood, Fat Man's completely healed leg is visible through it. Jenny sits back on her haunches, a damp sheen of perspiration saturating her body.

Fat Man lifts his legs out of the container and places his bare foot on the ground. Where the huge wound was is now only a section of pink, tender, hairless skin.

" _Holy shit_." He breathes in astonishment.

Jenny snorts, amused, and shuffles to the other side of him, sitting herself down by the candles with her leg out in front of her. She hikes up her pant leg to her knee, and grabs the first candle, tipping the candle above her leg and the hot, melted wax drips onto her skin. Jenny holds in a grunt of pain and reaches for another one.

"What are you doing?" Fat Man asks curiously, turning in his chair to watch her.

His question is a common one; something most people ask once she's finished fixing them up. "When I heal people," Jenny explains "the pain of whatever it is that's hurting them kind of, err… transfers to me. If I don't do this soon after I've mended someone the pain takes over and it hurts like a whore." She finishes with the last candle and snuffs out the flame with her breath.

"Okay, but why candle wax? That seems pretty damn weird."

Jenny smiles despite herself. There is now a layer of rapidly cooling wax covering her shin and she starts picking it off as she continues speaking. "Yeah, well, it was either that or an open flame. And let me tell you, burning your own skin is completely horrible."

Fat Man smirks as he pulls on his sock. "I know the feeling."

Prying off the last of the wax, Jenny pulls her pant leg back down. She still feels like a sauna so she takes her new cloths out of her bag and wipes herself down with them, removing most of whatever sweat still remains on her skin.

"Oh, uh, Doug told me to tell you that there's something in the fridge for you." Fat Man points to the mini fridge beside the door. Jenny walks to it and opens it up. There, in the very centre of the top shelf, is an ice pack- the squishy kind. She pulls it out, presses it flat against her face, and groans in carnal delight. _Doug, you're a saint._

Jenny moves the ice pack from her face to the exposed back of her neck and snatches her bag up. "Take it easy and you'll be fully functional in no time." She informs Fat Man, closing her hand around the door handle.

He calls after her as she walks out the door. "Thanks, lady!"

* * *

Frank's frustrated. The long haired lady- _Jennevieve Lynch-_ is there again. He keeps seeing her in places he shouldn't and it bugs him. First, right before he massacred the Kitchen Irish, and then during it. Then before the hospital ordeal. And now she's snug as a bug with the Dogs of Hell, whom he is about to kill now that she's gone.

Frank had searched her, determined to uncover something about her that might give him an indication as to who she is and what she does in the criminal world. Female, blonde, five feet seven inches tall, born on November 6th, 29 years old. No criminal history. No recorded affiliation with anyone or anything other than her workplace of eight years. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Since Frank has no idea how Jenny's involved in the criminal world, he decides that he should pay her a visit soon. Not tonight, though, he has plans tonight with a one Elliot Grote. Tomorrow night he'll… _catch up_ with her. Hopefully she squeals and admits the truth before he has to resort to more creative methods for extracting the answers he wants, but there shouldn't be a problem if she's innocent. If she's not... well, she'll get what's coming to her.

 _Focus, Castle. Focus on tonight._

 _One batch, two batch, penny and dime._

Yeah, tomorrow he'll catch up with her.

* * *

Review 3


	4. 4 Alley Clash

**CHAPTER 4**

* * *

Jenny kneels beside a closed coffin. Her hair is pulled into a tight, low bun and not a scrap of makeup is on her face; she's got a busy morning ahead of her.

"Rafe, I should have done more. I should have- I should have pulled you to the floor with me. I should have-" Feeling a new wave of tears brimming in her eyes Jenny stops herself short to take a breath. "Did you have to be so _stupid_?" She's smiling through her tears as if he's just told her a witty joke, looking to the ceiling as she wipes the tears from beneath her eyes. "I mean, it's not unlike you, but you walked right into the line of fire. I, uh, I just wanted to say that I'll miss you buddy. I won't forget you."

Jenny places her palm on the soft green fabric that lies over the dark wood of the coffin. She pats it softly, in a final goodbye, and then brings herself to her feet. The others a toasting to their fallen friends, letting Jenny go about her mourning in private. She slowly makes her way to Cullen's coffin. Jenny kneels down again, but not having anything to say, merely puts a forearm along the edge of the coffin and buries her head into the crook of her elbow.

She's just sitting there still when the door slides open and footsteps enter the room. A bag can be heard rustling as it is set upon the floor. The sound of a drink being poured meets her ears and then the new person in the room speaks.

"I caught the first flight as soon as I heard."

 _Wait._ Jenny knows that voice.

Her head slowly lifts from its resting place in her elbow. The man before her has short, red hair and a well groomed beard. He wears a grey three piece and has a glass of amber liquid in his hands. Finn Cooley, the Big Boss of the Kitchen Irish, is currently supposed to be on a several-weeks-long business trip out of New York.

He walks in her direction until he is standing at the head of Cullen's coffin. "This is him, then?" His question doesn't need answering. Finn's free hand comes down and wraps around Jenny's upper arm, which he uses to gently help her to her feet, and then opens his single arm out to her. "Come here, Jennevieve." She nearly corrects him on her name but stops herself, instead choosing to move into his embrace. She stands his with arm across her shoulders and looks down at the coffin before her.

"Finn, I… I'm so sorry. I don't know what else to say." Her face is dry now, her lashes only slightly damp, and she doesn't allow any more tears fall.

Finn shushes her and she is comforted by it. But that's before he down the entirety of his liquor in one swig. _Shit._ She knows that when he drinks like this the end results are never good. She thought he'd stopped but apparently he hasn't.

Finn gives her shoulder one last squeeze and then she steps out of his grip. He looks down at the coffin and clasps his finger along the underside of the lid. For a few moments he looks lost, as if he's trying to talk himself into opening the lid. When he finally does, Jenny keeps her eyes on him instead of Cullen's lifeless corpse.

Something in his face changes. The realisation of what's actually happened to his son takes a hold of him and a flicker of different emotions crosses him face. Shock, sadness, anger, rage, and then nothing. His expression goes blank. He brings his glass halfway to his lips and upon remembering he's already drank its contents brings it back down.

His fingers tighten their grip around the tumbler.

 _Shit._

When Buddy steps forward to say a few words, Jenny doesn't let the opportunity to step back pass her by. The large man follows Finn back to the table, where the red haired man pours himself _another_ drink and then downs it

Buddy places his hand on Finn's shoulder.

"You know, maybe you've been out of the game too long to remember. Death… is part of the deal."

Suddenly there's an ice picker being shoved into Buddy's eye socket. He screams bloody murder but Finn doesn't let go, moving them to the far end of the room. Jenny jumps at the sound and groans to herself. _So much for no illegal activity around me._

The man is soon on the ground and dead, the picker shoved into his brain. Finn stumbles as he stands, and out of his jacket he wrenches an orange bottle. The white lid is yanked of and he's downing what looks like one too many pills before Jenny can even speak, not that she would in fear of being brutally murdered.

Jenny knows what the boys did and that it would eventually catch up with them; Death was imminent for anyone in their line of work. So even though she feels sorrow now that Rafe and Cullen are gone, she can't bring herself to feel anger or hate either. Not towards them for getting themselves into this mess, and not towards their killer.

Finn clearly doesn't feel the same. The death of his only child has obviously snapped something in him that can't be fixed. Jenny doesn't blame him. She can't even begin to imagine the ache of losing a child. Maybe that's something you just don't come back from.

But now he's drinking and taking _who knows_ what types of pills, and Jenny's anxious. He's going to do something rash. He's going to go after the Punisher, she knows it.

And as for who walks away: it's either them or him.

* * *

"You're sure there's nothing else I can do, Mrs Gregson?" She asks the large lady in the pencil skirt.

Her supervisor smiles, revealing her perfect white teeth as she waves her hand in an offhanded way. "No, no, Jenny. There's nothing else. I assume Mr Michaels' anomaly was taken care of?''

"Of course." Jenny nods, sweeping up the pile of folders on the desk in front of her and tucking them under her arm. "Well, if that's all you've got for me I'll be on my way. Lunch is calling."

"Actually, Jenny!" The woman in question turns from her position facing the door. "Someone was here for you earlier this morning. A man, Sherrie, told me. Said his name was Albert, and an old friend of yours. Know him?"

Jenny's brows furrow as she tries to recall memories of him. "No." She says truthfully. "No, I don't know any Albert. What did he look like?"

"Err, she said something about a cap and a bruised face. I wasn't there so I can't say for certain."

It doesn't take Jenny long to come up with an assumption. She figures that this Albert fellow must be working for one of the two crime families she's associated with. The black and blue face, the inconspicuous dress sense. It makes sense that they could be working for Kitchen Irish or Dogs of Hell. She quickly tries to avoid arousing any suspicion of the strange man in her supervisor.

"Now that you mention it," She starts as if she has suddenly recalled a long lost memory. "I think I might have known an Albert in my college years. He had a habit of getting into brawls, I guess nothing's changed."

Gregson smiles in understanding and adds "Best not be getting involved with _those_ types now, Jenny. Dangerous men lead dangerous lives, or so I've heard."

She smiles and thanks the friendly plump woman before her. _If only you knew the half of it._ Jenny walks away with the reasoning that if someone needs her that bad, they have her number and will call. Until then, she's off to lunch because she is absolutely starved.

* * *

When she leaves the building, readjusting the folders under her arm, Frank takes up tail with her. He follows her down a few streets, around several bends, until he sees her enter a diner. He rests against the slim tree separating the walkway from the road where he can clearly see her through one of the diner's many wide, high windows. He is careful to keep his posture relaxed. His arms and legs are crossed, and his black cap is pulled down over his battered face. He's blending in.

Frank assesses the diner. There is a waitress taking Jenny's order, a cook just visible in the kitchen, an aged businessman reading the local newspaper at the table by the door, and a young man and his presumed daughter directly in front of Jenny's line of sight, only a single empty booth separating them.

Frank is quick to bat away the spike of agony that's sliding into his heart at the sight of the father and daughter enjoying their milkshakes.

Frank knows that he's not going to open fire with one of the numerous guns stashed on his person and hidden in in his dark jacket in the middle of a family diner. He knows the kind of shit that can go wrong when innocents get caught in the crossfire. But he _is_ planning to scare her out of the diner into a more private place. One where he can freely ask her what he wants without worrying about who else is going to get hurt.

Frank whistles a peppy tune as he walks the short distance to the diner door. When he enters, he continues his quiet whistling and nods politely at the waitress behind the counter. Even Frank can tell she's wearing too much lipstick.

He slides himself into the booth, seating himself directly across from her. She looks up from whatever the hell she's drinking- it's not coffee so Frank couldn't give two shits. When her eyes meet his face she does not smile.

"Hello again." Her voice is clipped, but not in fear. _Not yet, anyway._

Frank stares hard at her. He's not going to reply. He's going to wait for her to do all the talking.

She stares at him equally as determined, but it's not long before she speaks. "So it's you, then. The one who's been wiping out the crime families."

Frank doesn't respond. Jenny leans in on her forearms until her calm face is halfway over the booth's table. "Do you know what they're calling you?" Jenny doesn't wait for his answer. "The Punisher."

Frank's amused, just a little bit. Of course the authorities would come up with some stupid comic book style codename for him. As he continues to stare down at her it becomes pretty damn adamant that that she's not afraid of him. _Or she's just not showing it._

"At first Elliot Grote- the one who wound up dead last night, at your hands most probably- called you the Grim Reaper. I thought that was an acceptable name, but wow. _The Punisher_. All big and dark and scary." Her head tilts to the side a touch. "Very fitting."

Frank decides it's time to step it up a notch. He silently draws the handgun out of his inner jacket pocket, careful to give her a glance at it before he slides it underneath the table and presses the cold metal of the nozzle against her knee. Jenny's breathing catches just slightly and her jaw clenches before she is back to her composed self once again.

"You're not going to shoot me." She eyes him coolly, but there's an undeniable uncertainty. He can see her drinking him in, assessing him, pulling him apart.

Frank leans back in is seat until his shoulders rest against the red cushiony supports of the booth. "I'm not?" He finally speaks, one of his brows rising the slightest bit in question.

Her eyes scan the entire diner, noting the father and daughter, the waitress and cook, the elderly gentleman. They rescan the diner in reverse before they meet his. "You're not."

"And why's that?" The gun now rests on his thigh, still out of sight beneath the table, and he taps the metal softly against the underside of the cool stoneware.

She sucks her entire bottom lip into her mouth and then rolls it back out, giving her lips a lick. _She's nervous._

"That's not what you do. You hunt down a specific type of person, don't you? Murderer, rapist, drug dealer, human trafficker. You're trying to clean up the streets. I mean, you're painting them red as you go but I can't say your method's not effective." She's watching him closely, not having moved from her close position over the table, obviously trying to see if she's getting anything from him, but Frank gives nothing away. "At the Burren club, when you killed the Irish, when you killed my friends, I was an easy target. It didn't matter if I was against the wall or on the floor- I was _right there_ for you to shoot but you didn't. And again at the hospital: nobody was shot or injured. When you were shooting at the blonde who was protecting Grote, you were _purposefully_ missing them. You were herding them out of the hospital like sheep. And an expert marksman like yourself, an experienced shooter; you can't tell me it was just bad luck." Jenny adjusts her forearms and leans on them again, not breaking eye contact with him. "I don't think you were trying to kill them, because you didn't want to hurt her, an innocent woman. And I don't think I survived that shooting because of luck or quick thinking, but because you didn't want me dead. But why?" She licks her lips again. "You don't kill people unless you know what they've done to deserve it. So no, you're not going to shoot me. Unless you've found something incredibly incriminating to hold against me, that is."

 _And damn, if she didn't just hit the nail on the head._ Frank knows she's right- he doesn't kill without justification- but he's annoyed that she's picked him apart so easily. In a flash he's leaning over the table too, his gun still aimed beneath, and their faces aren't too far apart.

"And what the hell makes you think you know what I do and who I am?"

She's looking past him now, and it's not that difficult to figure out she's watching the family in the booth a few down from behind him. Her eyes flicker between him and the father and daughter behind him as she speaks. "Maybe we should take this outside?"

He completely agrees, but he wants to see how she'll react if he presses further, how long she'll fight for the unsuspecting people in the diner.

"'S somethin' giving you the idea that you're calling the shots in this here conversation?" He presses the gun against her knee again and she stiffens. _She'd doubting herself._

"Okay. Okay, maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you _will_ kill me. But there are other people in here that don't need to be dragged into this mess. Good, innocent people." She's really getting nervous now. Her jaw keeps clenching when she closes it and her interlaced fingers are squeezing each other tighter and tighter. "So you don't care who you kill? Find some decency and finish me in the alley. Leave these people alone."

He watches her as she anxiously waits for his response. He's glad he finally has the upper hand on her, and as much as he hates the idea of hurting innocent people, he'll just let her think he will until he gets what he wants.

He gestures to the door with his head. "Side alley. Now."

She disconnectedly throws down a note that looks like much more than the cost of her drink and walks to the door with him in tow.

He follows her down the narrow, shadowed alleyway, the height of the buildings on either side blocking out the harsh sun. Once she's past the dumpster he stashes his weapon away, slides the cap from his head into his pocket, and shoves her against the wall. His forearm is splayed along her collarbones, and when she gasps from the impact of her back colliding with the wall he snatches up her wrists in his free hand and pins them against her stomach. The folders which were originally tucked snugly under her arm are now in a slanted, disorganised pile by their feet.

"Now, you're gonna tell me who you are." Frank demands.

Her fear from earlier is gone, replaced with annoyance and only the smallest amount of anxiousness.

"Is Albert honestly the best name you could come up with?" She asks, ignoring his question. Her tone is neither playful nor snidely, only curious, so Frank's unsure how to respond. He opts for an aggressive one.

He lifts her from the wall and slams her back into it roughly. This time a quiet squeak escapes her lips. "Don't get smart with me." He growls. "Tell me who the _fuck_ you are." He continues pushing her shoulders against the wall and her hands into her stomach, causing her face to scrunch up and for her to let out a grunt of discomfort.

"All right, all right!" He relaxes his hold on her slightly. "Jenny Lynch, 29, I work as an accountant from home."

"I know that already." He clips.

"Of course you do. But that's about all you could dig up on me so that's why you were prying around my work. Am I right?" She's staring straight at him and he can't read her. It's a little unsettling- the way she's chatting with him as though they're having a casual conversation and he's not pinning her to a wall in a shielded alleyway where he can easily end her.

A growl resonates in the back of his throat but it's too quiet for her to hear. He shoves her again, suddenly and harshly. "You don't get to ask questions."

"Okay, sheesh, sorry." She clenches her jaw and glares at him. This time he can easily read the firmness on her face. "You can let go of me now."

Frank glares right back, his mind whirring. Part of him wants to trust that she won't try anything; she's nice and cares more about protecting the people around her than protecting herself. She doesn't _seem_ to be a bad person. But she also has connections with not one but two major crime families in Hell's Kitchen, and she's not afraid of him- something she should be for someone with her aforementioned connections. Frank's smart enough to know that just because someone _seems_ like a good person, it doesn't always mean they actually _are_ a good person.

He wants answers though, and it's either by way of a talk or a beating that he's going to get them. For some reason, Frank doesn't feel up to beating in Jenny's face with his fists. _Maybe he's just not in the mood._ So Frank releases her and takes a small step back, careful to remain within grabbing distance in case she tries to make a run for it, but far enough back that he can stop any attacks in a scenario where she busts out with some unexpected Kung Fu moves.

Jenny exhales and rubs her wrist while Frank watches her. Her fingers are dancing over her irritated collarbones as she says "Thank you."

Frank doesn't care to respond. _He doesn't care about formalities with her. He doesn't care what she thinks of him._

"How are you connected to the Irish?"

Frank can see her thinking. "Well… I was going to make up some bullshit story about getting dragged into it by family matters, but I'm just going to tell you the truth. Try to keep an open mind, okay?"

He crosses his arms and, for the millionth time, doesn't respond.

"I work for them. I lend my help for cash."

 _This slimy bitch-_

"Whatever you're thinking, it's not like that." She interrupts his train of thought. "I don't thieve, I don't murder, I don't rape, and I sure as shit don't deal."

"So what, then? You lend your other talents to the gangs?" His mind is racing with possibilities, and he thinks of that night at the Burren club, when she protected the blonde criminal. "You're that Rafe guy's whore."

Her laugh is light and tinkly and floats up and out of the alley. "Rafe? Piper Rafe?" She asks in disbelief. "The man's dead, and do you see me moping about because he's gone? We were friends, yes, but considering the conditions of our acquaintanceship, we were probably as close as we would ever get. He was going to get himself killed anyway." She crosses her arms, mimicking his stance almost playfully. "Besides, I'm an accountant, not a prostitute."

Frank believes her. She's definitely not grieving over her dead so-called friend, and he can't seem to think of a reason to believe she's telling anything but the truth.

"Then what _do_ you do for the Irish and the Dogs?"

She seems surprised for an instant that he knows about her being with the Dogs of Hell, and she uncrosses her arms. "I have supernatural healing abilities."

 _Yeah, and I got fairy wings_ , Frank sarcastically replies in his head.

"I told you not to get smart with me." He snarls.

Jenny rolls her eyes. "I told you to keep an open mind. Should've known you'd react like this."

"Tell me the truth."

"I am."

"That's bullshit."

"It's not bullshit!" She sighs and leans back against the wall. "I can heal people like brand new. It's how I'm in with the mobs: they pay me to patch up their guys and gals."

He knows about the superheroes of New York, and he's not unfamiliar with the concept of gifted vigilantes. Hell, the sky opened up not that long ago and spewed out alien freaks. Healing abilities shouldn't be that much of a stretch.

"So you're magical, so you're not. Don't care." He lies. "I wanna know what the Irish are up to. Heard they were talkin' about taking the city back. I want specifics."

Jenny sucks her bottom lip into her mouth; it's a habit Frank has picked up on, something she does when she's thinking or when she's nervous.

"I have no idea. Honestly. Nesbitt was talking mostly about taking over the heroin production and distribution, now that the Chinese have left. That's all I can say."

"Like that's all you know." He remarks suspiciously.

She raises her hands. "It is, I swear. I don't get involved in their illicit activities. I'm just the medic."

"And the Dogs?"

"Same old, same old. Again, I don't know anything about anything."

Frank grunts. "You're even more useless than I first thought you'd be, you know."

"Ouch, right in here." She drums her fingers on the centre of her chest.

Frank's not sure what to say then, and it seems that neither does she. She stares at him, sucks on her bottom lip, and then slides down the wall to the ground. She crosses her legs and slides the bag strap from her shoulder.

Frank regards her for a moment as she sits there indifferently on the alleyway floor, looking up at him with her soft, timber coloured eyes.

"You really aren't scared of me, are you?" His voice is a lot quieter than he intended it to be, but she hears him and rests her head back against the brick wall all the same.

"Don't get me wrong. Back there in the diner you had me terrified. The only thing I had on you was my own interpretation, and for a second I thought you were really going to kill me right in the middle of that diner. But you listened, and we're out here away from those people, so I guess I wasn't all wrong."

She exhales with a huff, a hand coming up to fiddle with the tight bun on the back of her head before she resumes talking. "So no, I'm not scared of you. You haven't yet given me a valid reason to be."

Frank is about to feel happy that someone knows what he does and isn't pissing their pants around him or trying to kill him. But he shoves it aside. _He doesn't care what she thinks of him_.

"Listen," Jenny hesitantly starts once more. "Finn Cooley, the head of the Kitchen Irish, the man whose son you killed the other night, he's coming after you. Usually he's more restrained and strategic, but now he's on some kind of pills and he's drinking like there's no tomorrow. Something snapped in him when he lost his kid; it's like he became a whole different person and he's Hell-bent on revenge."

She seems too caught up in her own world to notice that at her words Frank's eyes flicker to the ground in a moment of weakness. _He knows how it feels to have his children stolen from him and taken to a place he'll never see them again._ She snaps herself out of whatever it is she's thinking of. "I don't know what's going on in his head, but he's tearing the city apart chasing after you and a lot of people are going to die- his own men _and_ a whole heap of innocents."

Frank's eyes turn to slits as she finishes speaks. Finn Cooley was involved in the murder of his children, and he wasn't going run away now he had a chance to kill him.

"I know. They turned my apartment over. They stole my dog. They murdered-" _They murdered my kids._ Frank steels himself. "I want him dead. I wanna rip his head off." He glowers. "How do I do that, Jenny?"

 _There goes that lip of hers again_. "Finn's running off rage. He's completely blinded by it. If you can find a way to use that weakness against him then you've got him."

He nods once, more to himself than to her, and ruffles his short hair with his palm.

"Stop working for them." He says abruptly. She's showing her confusion clear on her face. "Stop helping the gangs and the mobs. They're the bad guys." She's looking awfully conflicted and so Frank tries for a more dramatic approach.

"If you're healing criminals it's just puttin' more of them back on the streets and that's not helping anyone but them. You don't stop of your own will, I'm gonna have to come back and stop you myself, and I can tell you now that it'll be a permanent solution. We understand each other?"

Frank doesn't know why but he can already tell that he wouldn't be capable of pulling the trigger if it came to. The thought perplexes him, and it annoys him that he's not able to pinpoint what's causing it.

Jenny understands his threat fully, and she nods. "You're right… and I'll stop. But they won't be happy about it at all." She closes her eyes and bumps her head against the bricks in distress. " _Shit_ , they're gonna be pissed."

"Tell 'em I threatened you into doing it. Wouldn't be a complete lie."

Her eyes open and she gazes up at him with high brows. "You're sure you're willing to take the heat for this?"

Frank crouches down in his spot only a foot or two from her. "'M sure."

They don't say anything for a pregnant pause in which Frank watches her roll her lip in and out of her mouth, once, twice. _She's thinking._

"You know, I thought it was just the diner, but it's definitely you… You smell like coffee."

His eyes break from her lips and snap up to her eyes and he gives an amused chuckle to match her neat smile. "Should I feel flattered or something?"

Her teeth peek through where her lips part in a slightly wider smile than before. "Treat it how you want. It's just an observation, Albert."

The conversation is starting to flow so normally, so naturally- something he hasn't experienced in quite some time- and before he can help it he corrects her.

"Frank."

"Well Frank, you smell like coffee."

"I live off the stuff."

Her smile slowly fades to a content expression and she offers "You want to grab something to eat that _isn't_ a caffeinated beverage? The diner's still right there."

He's so tempted to take the offer, but he is enjoying the short one-to-one so much he let his mind wander away from his mission. He likes the idea of having a normal conversation over a normal lunch with a normal friend, but it's distracting him from what he's supposed to be doing.

 _Kill the killer of your children._

Frank clears his throat and stands. "No, I'm fine. Not hungry."

Jenny scoops up her folders and hoists herself to her feet, shouldering her bag all the while. "Suit yourself. I think I'll have a grilled cheese sandwich because why not."

Frank doesn't laugh at her antics. He notices her eyeing him.

"You're not going to shoot me if I walk out of this alleyway, are you?" She's joking, it's clear, but he doesn't retort.

She fiddles with her bag strap for a jiffy and then begins her trip to the walkway adjacent. He falls into step beside her despite himself. It's only a matter of moments before they're one step away from the sidewalk, and she turns to him.

"Take care of yourself, Frank. And watch your back."

 _He doesn't care what she thinks of him._ The thought he's been trying to burn into his brain is slowly melting away.

 _He doesn't care what she thinks_ _._ He's trying to hold back the words that are pressing at the inside if his lips, desperate to escape, to be heard.

 _He doesn't…_

The words are out before he can stop them.

"I wasn't actually going to hurt anybody in that diner, you know."

She studies him for a moment. He suddenly feels like some morbid piece of artwork on display at one of those horrid museums and she's the collector come to scrutinise every last one of his details. She finally adjusts the folders under her arm and tips the corners of her lips up just a tad.

"I believe you."

Jenny walks to the right and soon has disappeared into the diner once again.

When Frank walks to the left, he can feel the smallest smile almost finding its way onto his face. _Almost_ , but not quite. He's pleased she doesn't see him as some crazed killer, but as a person trying to clean up the scum running wild in the city streets. He's happy she acts how she wants around him, and not how she thinks he wants her to act. He's thrilled that her offer to lunch was genuine, and not something said out of obligation. He's elated that their conversation was able to play out like it did, ending with them just talking semi-normally, instead of him having to beat a person for answers as per usual.

And for the first time in a long time… he's glad someone's not afraid of him.

* * *

 _So, this is as far as I've written. Everything after this will be what I come up with as I go. If you have any comments or suggestions, I'd love to hear them. And don't be afraid to leave criticism, because it only helps me improve my literacy skills :) Stay tuned for moreeeeee 3_


	5. 5 Err Donut?

**CHAPTER 5**

Jenny is sitting at her kitchen table. It's clear exept for her phone, which lies face up in front of her. She stares at it inattentively.

Though their interaction had started off rocky, Frank was actually ample company. If she looks past his rough and gruff exterior, that is. She's not trying to say that he's not dangerous or vicious or ruthless or anything the like- it's quite apparent something is damaged inside him- but she does think that his presence, though intimidating sometimes, is not unwelcome.

And he's doing the right thing, despite his questionable methods, he _is_ putting an end to the current rein of organised crime. But she's not, she's _helping_ it.

Which brings her to her present predicament.

Jenny stares at the phone intensely. Her decision to pick it up and dial the numbers in her head could quite literally mean her death if the wrong people take to her news poorly. _They're the bad guys._ Frank's right and she knows it.

Jenny doesn't want to be the one helping put criminals back on the street. She doesn't want to be a part of something like that anymore. She wants to be better. _Damn the consequences._

Her phone is to her ear before she can second guess herself. She's made up her mind. She's going to play the victim card and attest that Frank is forcing her to stop working with the mobs by means of a death threat.

"Hello, yeah, Molly. Jenny here."

"This isn't a good time, dollface." He sounds disgruntled. This probably isn't the ideal situation to be the bearer of bad news.

 _Suck it up._ "I need to talk to you…" Her voice gives it all away.

"Hold on." There's a pause filled by the clink and a grind of a metal door tapping closed. "What's wrong?" He almost sounds concerned

"I can't… Um. I'm not-" Jenny knows that by doing this, her criminal friends will end up either locked up or shot dead. But she doesn't let herself wallow in the guilt; they're the ones who committed (and continue to commit) the crimes and they're the ones who'll have to face the consequences. "I can't work for you any longer."

 _There. Not so hard_ _,_ _was it?_

"We had a deal, Jen." Molly exhaled thoruugh gritted teeth.

"I know, I know. And I had every intention of keeping it, but I got into a spot of trouble." _Tell 'em I threatened you into doing it._ Frank's voice is echoing in her ear, encouraging her. Jenny lifts her voice a few notes higher than usual, imitating a fearful tone. "The guy who's been taking out gang members, the mass killer, he caught up to me. He threatened to kill me if I didn't stop working with the Dogs of Hell and the Kitchen Irish."

"Shit, girl. So you're gonna do what he says?" The malice in his voice has gone.

Jenny sighs into the phone for effect. "We both know what he's capable of, Molly. I don't wanna get on is bad side any more than I already am."

"Yeah, you're okay for not comin' in, sweets. Lay low and stay safe. We'll catch this bastard; don't you worry."

The line goes dead and Jenny drops her scared act and put the phone back on the table.

 _One down, one to go._

This time, when she's dialled a second number, the phone rings for a little longer than usual. The voice who answers is not who she is expecting.

"The boss is busy." An unfamiliar voice barks into the phone. "Leave a message."

"Wait! It's important. Tell him it's Jenny with news on the Punisher."

The voice doesn't respond, instead it's replaced by the voice of the very man she's been wanting to speak with. "Jenny, something wrong?" Finn Cooley's distinct Irish accent reverberates through the phone speaker.

Jenny takes a calculated breath and starts babbling into the phone. "Yeah, I need to talk to you about Punisher. I saw him today and he saw me and-"

Finn cuts her off. "Calm down, child. Take a breath."

She plays along as convincingly as she can, taking a few slow breaths. "Okay, sorry. I got this." Jenny clears her throat. "He found me earlier today. Somehow he knows about me working for the crime families. He said he was gonna kill me if I didn't stop and I'm no genius but I'm fairly certain he meant it." She bites her lips, deciding to add an air of finality to it. "I can't work for you anymore."

"You're saying he's threatened you, love?" He doesn't wait for her answer, filling the silence with a soft grunt of agitation. "Funny you mention him, actually."

Worry creases her brow; Jenny doesn't like where this is going.

"I've got the fucker tied up in a chair in the room next door."

Jenny face goes completely blank. _Oh. Shit._

"I'm sending an escort to come collect you. It's a three minute drive and then we can get started."

 _He's going to torture Frank. He's going to murder him. I don't want to see that._

"Finn, I don't wanna come. Leave me out of this."

"Too bad. This man's a sorry bastard who's hurt and taunted too much of my family. And I want you to be there to see his execution, to know you're safe."

Jenny's fear of Cooley losing his wits is starting to take hold of her. The Finn she knew was compassionate and respected her decisions. He cared about letting her make her own choice. Now that Cullen is gone, he seems to be dwindling away into a crazed madman hellbent on revenge.

"No, I'm not going."

"Listen here, missy. You're going to be here within the next three minutes or a death threat will become the least of your issues." His voice is cold. She's never heard him speak like that, not in that tone, never.

Her mind registers the familiar electronic click of him hanging up and she slowly brings the device away from her ear.

 _Damn it all to hell._

* * *

Flanked by a sour looking man, Jenny follows the twists and turns each corner in the maze-like building. Her signal as to which door she should enter is the two armed men standing stationary on either side of the yellow, concrete archway. The wooden door is pushed open for her from the inside and she steps through. Immediately her eyes are drawn to the hunched figure situated on a wooden chair in the centre of the room. His arms are tied behind his back and blood smears the surface of almost every inch of exposed skin. His face is cut on his jaw, his lip is split and blood glistens red on pink over them as it oozes from his mouth. There's cuts and scratches over the shaved section of his head and on his left temple. What draws Jenny's attention is his eyes; both of them are lined with purple bruises, the right one seems more swollen then the left. Following above the curve of his right cheekbone is a large, open gash that hasn't fully clotted yet. His eyes meet hers and they hold the contact. He's in pain but his eyes don't ask or assistance, and they don't plead for help.

 _Frank. The polite stranger._

She wants to go to his side. She wants to help him and comfort him. Because he's wounded, of course. Not because she's somehow attracted to being in his presence. Definitely not.

She can't, though, because her wide eyes focus on Finn, who has just stepped into her line of sight.

"You came." He opens his arms slightly or a hug. Jenny just stares at him and plays with the hem of her shirt. She left her bag in her apartment, as was suggested (forced) by the escort, so she has no shoulder strap to fiddle with now that she is nervous.

"I don't wanna be here. This is torture. This is wrong." Jenny watches him closely to see if her words have gotten through to him. He only crosses his arms.

"Finn, please." Jenny can her the begging tone of her voice emerging. " _Torture_. This isn't how you are. Please just let him go. And let me go. Please."

"Let him go. Let him go?" His jaw sets in rage, his arms uncross, and he takes a domineering step forward. "Let him go?!" He suddenly grips her shoulders. His grasp is forceful and rough. Jenny can feel his fingers digging into her soft flesh; they'd leave a bruise each tomorrow. If she lives that long. "YOU WANT ME TO LET THE MAN WHO SLAUGHTERED MY SON GO?!"

Jenny cries out in pain as he pulls her against him until they are nose to nose and screams into her face. "SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP! YOU DON'T GET A SAY ANYMORE!"

He throws her at the escort, who shoves her into a chair that faces Frank, but is on the opposite end of the chamber to him, and holds her wrists in one hand while he binds them with rope with the other. She struggles to pull free from his vice grip but he's a million times too strong for her to fight off. That doesn't stop her from trying, though, and so she continues to wriggle and writhe in the chair.

"Finn, I know you. You're a good hearted man. You're not being yourself." Her wrists are now bound and she's been tied to the chair by a rope around her torso. Finn is pacing feverishly and pulling at his face with a shaky hand. "You're not thinking right! Losing Cullen was too much and it's changed you. The drinking and the pills… You're sick, Finn!"

The Irish mobster spins on his heel. "Don't you talk about him. You were there when he died. You should want this monster," He hatefully gestures at Frank behind him. "In agony for what he's done. But it looks like you don't care." Finn's eyes turn desolate as they glare down resentfully at the restrained woman in the chair. "You're just as bad as him."

Jenny could feel herself getting hotter. Her skin was heating with every word. All the anger and pent up frustration was bubbling over. "Cullen was my friend! He was like my little brother! I was there at his funeral and I mourned him more than anyone else there did! DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME I DON'T CARE!"

She was sweating profusely now, it's sitting in beads on her brow and collecting atop her cleavage. She needs to bring her body temperature down.

Finn yells out in a rage as he storms forward and brings his hand down on her cheek. He crouches down in front of her, taking a rough hold of her chin with one hand and threading his fist into her loose curls with the other. Spittle flying from his lips, he clutches her face and hisses, "Listen closely, you foul bitch, I told you not to talk about my boy. Now, you're going to stay quiet and watch as I torture what I want out of this man, and then I'm going to kill him. Once he's dead, you're going to continue working for me and if you fail to do something- _anything_ \- I've told you to do then I will kill you." He uses his grip in her hair to tilt her head up and he stands. "Do we understand each other?"

She doesn't speak, only glares silently.

He yanks her head again and she whimpers, her face scrunching up in pain. "Do we understand each other?" He says again in the exact same condescending tone.

Jenny can't bring herself to speak without crying, so she only tries to move her head up and down in a nod. He can feel the movement and releases her to show he accepts her answer.

On the inside, Jenny's in a fit. She's flushed hot. Her mind's racing. She wants to scream out, she's so angry and hurt and anxious and confused. _They're torturing Frank. They're hurting Frank. They're going to kill Frank. They're hurting me. They're kidnapping me. They're going to kill me._

She's focusing on her breathing.

 _Escape. Get out of here. Protect Frank. Save yourself._

Jenny closes her eyes and grunts at herself.

 _Get it together. Think_ _._

* * *

It's been a while. A long while. At first they drilled into the arch bone of his foot with a power tool. Jenny had screamed at them to stop but that only rewarded her with another blow to her already red cheek and a command to shut up or the same thing would happen to her.

After that failed to get anything out of him, they continued beating him with their bare fists anywhere they could land a solid hit. Jenny stayed mostly silent throughout the ordeal, only letting out a whimper or two in the moments he was hit in an especially nasty manner. There were periods of time when Frank's eyes would catch hers and not let go until they forced his head into a different position. In those little moments she couldn't read what he was thinking. He'd just stare at her with sad eyes and a beaten face, and she would do her best not to break down in front of him.

It was only for this reason that she'd managed to stay put together for so long.

Now, the tears on her face are mostly dry and she's nearly back to her regular abnormal body temperature. She feels so helpless, and even worse, she's helpless to stop herself from feeling helpless. She just wants to do something. Uselessness was never a good look on her. She always needs to be doing something to help, to protect, to save.

Finn, who's come to realise that hurting Frank isn't working, decides for an alternative approach. "All right." He says as he steps away from Frank's battered body. "New plan. Bring him in."

Through the side door comes two men with a large dog whose leash is being shared between them. Jenny doesn't know anything about dogs but it's big, with a brown coat and white underbelly, and large floppy ears. Though the size of the dog might intimidate some, as well as its set of teeth, Jenny notices that it's not barking, but only yapping softly and whimpering like a puppy. As it is dragged past her chair Jenny get a look at the dog's face. It's not snarling or snapping its jaws viciously like an attack or guard dog would be doing, and it actually looks kind of harmless and… cute.

Jenny is confused for a moment. Why would they bring a cute little (big) dog in here? And then she remembers: _'They turned my apartment over. They stole my dog.'_ This is Frank's dog. They can't get information from hurting Frank so they're getting it from hurting who Frank cares about. _Horrid._ And it was working, if the look on his face was anything to go by. His brows are knitted and turned upwards, his bottom lip is moving as he mumbles to himself, and his eyes are what make Jenny look away. Helplessness is what she sees in them. She knows what that feels like.

"It seems like you've takin' a liking to this mutt." Finn takes a knee next to the dog and pats its head playfully. As he continues scratching the dog's head, he looks up to the beaten man in the chair. "If I don't get my money, everything I've done to you, I'm doing _double_ to this poor puppy here, huh?"

Finn stands and heads to the tool kit, picking up the power drill. Walking back to the dog, he fingers the trigger, starting the drill up.

"Wait." Frank's looking around, _helpless_. Jenny bites her lip and turns her head away, but she can't stop from hearing. "Wait, wait."

Finn's ignoring him, if the continuing sound of the drill is any indicator to go by. The poor dog's whimpering becomes louder as the drill moves closer to its face. Jenny's bracing herself for the sound of metal through bone.

"Hey, let him go!" His voice is loud, gruff, dominant, just like she remembers. That's the Frank she knows. "Just let him go, you asshole! I'll tell you where your money is, okay? I'll tell you!" Frank's voice becomes quitter, but no less coarse. "Your money's in a van, okay? It's in a van. It's on 48th and 10th. Just let him go, you asshole." Concentrating on the noises alone, Jenny knows the words should sound defeated, but his voice is steady and there's no hesitation in giving up the information.

Nobody else seems to catch on.

Now that the drill has been turned off, Jenny feels it's safe to turn her head back to them. She manages to catch Frank's gaze again, and tilts her head with her eyes squinted curiously. The look holds a single message: _What are you up to?_ Though he maintains eye contact, he doesn't respond.

The dog is carted away and Finn turns his back on Frank to make a brief call. He's fiddling with something behind his back, and this time when Jenny gives him the questioning gesture, he tilts his head up slightly, jutting his jaw out a little and giving an expressionless wink.

Jenny has no idea what to make of it but it's _something_ to she doesn't question further.

The Irishman pockets his phone as he rounds on Jenny "Alright, sweetheart. Time for a break. I'll have one of my men find you some ice and maybe some food. You look a little off."

In less than a minute she's completely free of the ropes restraining her and being led out the door by Finn's hand on the small of her back. Despite the sudden repulsion resonating from where his hand rests on her, as opposed to the once felt comfort, she knows better than to fight back.

Even though she can't see Frank, she can definitely feel his eyes following her. Jenny finds herself wanting to turn around and look to him for assurance, but she knows that's ill advised. After all, Finn finding out she's actually doing the Punisher's bidding of her own free will might not settle well in his twisted mind.

He guides her out of the chamber and gives her to the sour-faced escort, who leads Jenny through a few short hallways. They are now inside a kitchen-like room, and she stands to the side, watching the brute shovel ice cubes into a long, clear, plastic oven bag. He throws it across the room to her, but due to her nerves she starts and doesn't move fast enough to catch it. The bag smacks the cement floor by her feet and she scoops to pick it up. When she's standing straight again the man is approaching her with a brown paper bag. She takes an involuntary step back in alarm. The man only continues to near her, and then he stops and holds out the two bags to her silently. She accepts them without question and then he is walking away.

Trailing a few too many paces behind him, she follows the sound of his footsteps as she wraps the long icebag around the back off her neck and peeks into the brown bag. The smell hits her first and all of a sudden she's extremely aware of how hungry she is. Jenny idiotically decided to skip dinner tonight in favour of staring at her phone and dreading the calls she would soon have to make. And even though it isn't in any way even _close_ to a supplement for a meal, the glazed donuts will have to suffice.

The subzero temperatures pressing against her heated skin felt euphoric in the aftermath of her previous hot flush.

Putting the donut in her mouth and taking her first bite, Jenny nearly groans in delight. Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.

The sound of footsteps she's pursuing becomes a quick scuffle soon followed by a thud. Jenny's brows knit in confusion as she rounds the corner to investigate.

 _What on Earth?_

There, in the hallway, lies half a dozen unconscious figures, their limbs every which way and their weapons knocked out of their grip. She's no stranger to this. What does capture her attention is the vigilante in the crimson body armour.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

His body language is rigid, defensive. He's not planning on hurting her, if her judgment is correct. She's only a few steps away, close enough to clearly see the lower half of his face. He's Caucasian, sightly tan, though it's hard to make out under the yellow light of the corridor. His beard is short and made up of a million dark hairs.

Jenny stares at him, and despite not being able to see his eyes, she knows he's focusing on her. They both stand in awkward silence for a moment.

"Err…" Jenny holds the paper bag outwards slightly. "Donut?"

He doesn't reply, only huffs and purses his lips together. "What are you doing here?"

Jenny retracts the attempted friendly offer. "Well, it's a long story, with a lot of complicated contributing factors."

He huffs again and storms to her, grabbing her by her already tender shoulder and pushing her against the wall, gentler than she had expected. Her ice pack falls from her shoulder and clacks onto the floor. "I don't wanna know how. I wanna know why."

Jenny sighs inwardly and relents. "They're making me watch as they torture my, um, new acquaintance, Frank. And once he's dead they're going to snatch me and force me to work for them."

He regards what she had said, seemingly deciding whether or not she's being truthful. He's so close she can fell his breath on her face, and make out every detail in her sight. Since his eyes are covered by the red mask, Jenny's gaze is immediately drawn to his lips. They are dark pink, nestled down with his facial hair, and upon first glance seem rather square shaped. Now that he's leaning in closer, she can make out the round, gentle lines of his bottom lip and the peaked heights of his wide-spread cupid's bow… Wait.

 _Wait._

 _She knows those lips._

"Matthew?!"

* * *

 _A/N: Heyyy, so I know I haven't updated in a while. This chapter is incomplete and is actually the work-in-progress that's been stewing in my documents for several months. I decided to just cut it out and post it as is._

 _How do ya'll think Matt's going to react to her calling him out? xD_


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